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Popular
Chinese Literature
and Performing

Arts

DNTH

RFPUBl

I^EOPLt
CHINA

Bonnie S. McDougall

Popular Chinese

Literature and Performing Arts

in the People's

Republic of China,

1949-1979

"This book will set new standards for
work in the study of contemporary Chinese
culture and should be of interest to all con-
cerned either with China itself or with the
relationship between politics and the arts."

— CYRII BIRCH

The essays in this volume constitute an
exceptionally broad and inclusive account
ot Chinese literature and performing arts
since 1949. Extending beyond fiction to
poetry and drama, and covering song,
opera, and film as well, these essays reveal
a more lively and varied cultural life than
that disclosed by studies confined to fiction
and literary politics.

ather than stopping at the assumption
art reflects Party or government policy,
le essays uncover the traditional roots of
popular ^ittratore ani ps^iiv^iTfiVfife k-A
employing literary and artistic methods of
analysis. While often lacking in appeal to
Western audiences, these popular arts none-
theless have their own artistic validity and
convey complex meanings to broadly based
Chinese audiences.

he new materials and analyses presented
here have social as well as cultural relevance.
Variety and change rather than monolithic
uniformity have characterized post-1949
cultural bureaucracies, writers, performers,
and audiences.

Popular Chinese Literature
and Performing Arts
in the People's Republic of China

1949-1979

Popular Chinese Literature
and Performing Arts

IN THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC OF CHINA

1949-1979

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EDITED BY

Bonnie S. McDougall

CONTRBUTORS
Paul Clark * Michael Egan * Edward Gunn

Robert E. Hegel • David Holm • Kai-yu Hsu • T. D. Huters

Perry Link • Wai-fong I. oh • Boiiiiic S. McDougall
Isabel K. F, Wong • bell Yung

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS
Berkeley • Los Angeles • London

To Cyril Birch

Whom neither Ocean, Desarts, Rockes nor Sands
Can keepe from th' intertraffique of the minde

UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA PRESS
Berkeley and Los Angeles, California
University of California Press, Ltd.
London, England
<e> 1984 by

The Regents of the University of Califomia

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Main entry under titles:
Popular Chinese literature and performing arts in the
People's Republic of China, 1949-1979.
Based on papers presented at a workshop held at
Harvard University, June 1979.
Bibliography: p.
Includes index.
1. Arts, Chuiese — Addresses, essays, lectures.
1. McDougall, Bonnie S., 1941- II. Social
Science Research Council (U.S.) HI. Joint Committee
on Chinese Studies.
NZ583J^1P66 1984 790.2 0951 82-21942
ISBN 0-520-04852

Printed in the United States of America
123456789

Copyrighted material

CONTENTS

PRFFArF/vii
NOTF ON ROMANIZATION/xv

PART I-THE GROUND PREPARFO, 1937-1949

1. Folk Art as Propaganda; The Yangge Movement in Yan'an

DaviH Hnlm f ^

2. Shanghai's "Orphan Island" and rhc Development of Modern Drama

Edward (lunnl

3. Critical Ground: The Transformation of the May Fourth Era

PART H.THF PUSH TO POPULARIZE. 1949-1979

4. The Genie and the Lamp: Revolutionary XiangshenR

Perry Link 183

5. Geming Gequ: Songs for the Education of the Masses

Isabel K. f. Wong/ 112

6. Model Opera as Model: From Shajiabang to Sagahong

Bell Yung 1 144

7. From Romantic Love to Class Struggle:
Reflections on the Film Liu Sanjie
Wai-fong Loh/16S

8. The Film Industry in the 1970s

Paul Clark f 177

CONTENTS

9. Making the Past Serve the Present in Fiction and Drama;

From the "^'an'.in Forum to tht.- Cultural RL-voliition

Robert E. Hegel/ 197

10. A Nntahlf Sprmnn; Thp Siihtpvf nf Han Ran\ Firfinn

Michael Eean/224

1 1 . Contemporary Chinese Poetry and Its Search for an Ideal Form

Kai-yu Hsu 1 244

PART lll.THRFF DFrADFS IN HISTORlCAl PFRSPFCTIVF

12. Writers and Performers, Their Works,
and Their Aiidienrps in thp Fir«;t Thrpp Dpradp*;

Bofwic S. McDoki^jH / 269

CONTRIBUTOR S / 3Q5

r.i n<;<;ARY/ W

R!RI ir>r.RAPnv/^7S

PREFACE

The state of literature and of its writers and audiences in contemporary
China has attracted much Western attention in recent years.' The novels
and short stories of "socialist realism" written in the 195()s and early 1960s,
the "model revolutionary theater" ot the CAiliLiral Revolution and its after-
math (1966-1976), and the second Hundred Mowers after the fall of the
Gang ot lour have all been described by journalists and scholars. Most of
their studies, however, whether descriptive or analytical, have focused on
die content of the literature and on the way it has refleaed changes in Party
or government policy.^ In this they have edioed the concern for the content
of literary works that has been the major preoccupation of the Chinese
Communist Party. All but a handful of these studies, moreover, concentrate
on written literature: films, operas, or dramas are considered, when they are
considered, more often as written scripts than as performing arts. Designed
to complement existing studies, the present volume goes beyond content
and policy analysis of these cultural products to literary-artistic methods of
analysis. In this way, we hope to give a fuller picture of the literature and
arts of today's China — how they might seem to China's audiences, how they
relate to China's past traditions, and how a modem Western reader might
best appreciate their merits and shortcomings.

As well as examining the conventional written literature of poetry, fic-
tion, and modern drama, this volume pays particular attention to oral and
performing literature. Since the circulation of almost all written literature
was suspended during the three years of the Cultural Revolution proper

' For a selection of books and articles on contemporary Chinese literature and performing
arts, see the Bibliography at the end of dits volume.

^ See, for example. Howard I.. Boorman, "The Literary World ot Mao Tse-tung," in Cyril
Birch, ed., Communist Chmese Literature (New York: I'raeger, 1963;, p. 15.

vii

PREFACE

(1966—1969), only the performing arts, chiefly in the shape of "model
revolutionary theater," provide any continuity in the cultural history of the
period. The performing arts are also a necessary complement to written
literature because of the two forms* constant interaaion in theory and
practice. Finally, the performing arts are part of Chinese cultural history in
their own right: sudi genres as film and song probahly reach a wider
audience than any written literature, and are objects of serious attention
for writers and performers as well as for the cultural authorities.

This collection of essays covers contemporary Chinese literature and
performing arts through the end of the 1970s, at a particularly propitious
moment for looking back on the achievements and vicissitudes of the
post-1949 period. The Cultural Revolution has given us a perspective on
the Hundred Flov^ers campaign of the late 1950s and the relaxation of the
early 1960s, especially into the personal relationships among cultural
workers, which was not available to Western observers at the time/ The
dismanding of the Cultural Revolution policies in the 1970s gave, in addi-
tion, a promise of new possibilities for cultural life in a socialist state and
raised new questions about the strength of the various traditions that make
up the cultural scene.

The first three essays (Part I) in this volume show how the ground was
prcp;ircd for the dc\cl<>pment of popular and elite forms of literature and
performing arts in the late 1930s and the 1940s. Holm discusses the trans-
formation of the rural song-and-dance yani^i^c, as effected through political
directives from (\)mmunist headquarters in the remote Northwest. In con-
trast, Cjunn discusses the popularization of a modern urban elite form, the
huaju (spoken drama), by the injection of elements from traditional drama
as a commercial response to wartime conditions in occupied Shanghai.
Finally, Huters discusses the gradual undermining of the modernist May
Fourth writers in the late 1940s by political and social forces beyond their
apparent control.

The core of the volume (Part 11) deals with the fate of the different
written and perfbrmings arts in the first three decades of the People's
Republic of China, from its establishment in 1949 through its radical
transformation in the 1970s. Three essays in this center section survey,
respectively, the historical development and contemporary condition of
xiangsheng (comedic monologues or dialogues), geming gequ (revolution-
ary songs), and p(Ktr\. Link and Wong discuss the origins oi xiangsheng
and geming gequ in the nineteenth century, the former as a popular urban

* For example, the contrihurnr'N to i omntuntit (.hinese Literature, whose articles were
originally prepared for a conterence in summer 1962 and published in 1963, showed little
belief in ^e "relaxation" of 1959-1962 (pp. 115, 159), though one contributor notes a slight
relaxation (p. 204). From the mid-1960s, the early 1960s looked quite different: see D. W.
Fokkema, "Chinese CrinciM^i of Humanism: Campaign against the Intellectuals, 1964-
1965," Unna Quarterly lb (1966): 70, 77.

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PRtFACt

form that sometimes directed its satire against the authorities and the latter
as a propaganda medium that was intentionally developed hy organized
rebellious forces. Whereas xiangshcng is a genuinely popular form that
was adapted to meet the needs of the state after 1949, geming^ gequ is an
example of a so-called popular form created from above. Hsu's essay on
poetry charts the torm's vicissitudes from the 1950s through the 1970s,
showing the sometimes uneasy balance that existed among classical, folk,
and modernist forms.

Two further essays analyze in detail the production of particular works:
Loh, the musical film, Liu Sanjie, and Yung, the ''transplanted" revolu-
tionary opera Sagabong. These contributors demonstrate the processes by
which writers and composers handled the task of creating new mass works
on the basis of popular myths and performing traditions. Yung, like Holm,
takes us beyond the centers of Peking and Shanghai to show the variety in
provincial or regional forms. In the first of two essays on fiction, Egan
describes how a self-professed peasant writer, Hao Ran, progressed from
using a genuine folk idiom in narrative to develop a more purified, politi-
cized style in the 1970s. In the following essay, Hegel examines the part of
the tradition mined for the mass fiction of the 1950s and 1960s, and how
that fiction was itself mined for the "model operas" of the 1960s and
1970s. Clark's essay on film in the 1970s describes the gradual re-
emergence of film personnel before as well as after the fall of the Gang of
Four, and shows also their continuity with the film world of the 1960s (a
situation also broadly true of the other arts)

The volume concludes (Part III) with a survey of writers and per-
formers, their works, and their audiences over the three decades from
1949 through the 1970s, pointing to the complexities and changing rela-
tionships within literary and art circles, their overlap with political groups,
and their mutual relations. Taken as a whole, the essays cover the major
time periods and literary genres of the People's Republic of China and
offer a comprehensive view of its problems and achievements in the field
of popular culture.

THE STUDY OF CONTEMPORARY CHINESE LHERATURE
AND PERFORMING ARTS IN THE WEST

The essays in this volume came out of a workshop on contemporary
Chinese literature and the performing arts held at Harvard University in
June 1979.^* In the sometimes heated discussions that followed the presen-

■* The workshop was sponsored by the Harvard I ni versify Council on East Asia, the John
K. Fairbank Center for East Asian Research, and tlic Department of East Asian I.anpuages
and Civilizations. We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Mellon Foundation, the
American Council of Learned Societies, and the Social Science Research Council, I should
also like to express my appredadon of die contributions made by the more than fifty sdiolars
who took part in the workshop.

Copyriyi iicu I : i ulCI lal

PREFACE

tation of the papers, the problems facing students and researchers in this
new subfield became only too evident. Many of these problems are raised
in the essays included in this volume; the major ones are oudined beiow.^

Informational Problems
The difficulty in obtaining adequate information about our material
poses a serious problem, as it does in other kinds of contemporary Chinese
studies. Over most of the past three decades, we have been largely re-
stricted to a small selection of the official cultural products emanating
from the center and approved for foreign distribution. Failure to secure
even these limited materials inunediately upon release often results in their
permanent absence from Western collections. Some additional materials
can be obtained widiout official sanction, but these may have drawbacks
such as unsystematic supply and unconfirmable authenticity. Our informa-
tion about literature and the arts, and about the people who practice them,
and about their audiences, may be misleading, whether it comes from
official or nonoffidal sources; more often, it is die simple lack of informa-
tion that hinders our better understanding.

Disciplinary Problems

1 list, in addition to the problems we share with political scientists,
historians, and so on, we lack a tradition in Western literary sinology for
the study of literature as it is produced. Before World War 11, the study of
Chinese literature in the universities was largely confined to the traditional
classics in the literary language. Perhaps because of its obvious westerniza-
tion and seeming lack of continuity with the past, May Fourth literature
did not receive sustained and detailed study until the 1960s. The heavy
politidzation of Chinese literature that took place in the 1940s and after
alienated a great many scholars, including those who had developed strong
interests in May Fourth literature. The overt nature of the political con-
tent, which embodies an ideological stand not shared by most American
scholars and students, remained a serious obstacle to contemporary liter-
ary studies throughout the 1960s and 1970s.

In the case of Western or Japanese literature, the ejects of literary
conservatism are usually limited, as modem information-collecting systems
continue to collate and store the material for future research. In contempo-
rary China this has simply not been the case, given the stormy political
conditions of the past diree decades. For the period 1966—1973, a sin^e
person resident in China could l>6 confident of having read all the litera-
ture and seen all the productions created centrally in China. Since then, the

' For this section I am gieatly indebted to die ideas expressed by J<^n Bemioghausen in
"The State of the Field and Future Directions," paper at the workshop on Contemporary
Chinese Literature and Performing Arts, Harvard University, June 1979.

PREFACE

picture has changed rapidly — especially since 1978 — and it is now neces-
sary to exercise selectivity in studying the total production. Instant literary
judgments pose substantial hazards to scholarly reputations — but if not to
Hterary scholars, then to whom should we turn?

Second, most Western studies of Chinese literature arc undertaken from
a background in sinology rather than literature. Scholars of traditional
Chinese literature have recently paid more attention to the literary nature
of the texts, but this perspeaive has not yet carried over into modern
studies. Most Western discussions of May Fourth literature still dwell on
the external circumstances of the text — its author, the sodal and intellec-
tual background, and its impact on its audience — ^rather than on its struc-
ture and internal coherence. In contemporary Chinese literature, where the
content has seemed so alien and the literary value so slight, a large part of
the research has been undertaken by political scientists rather than by
literary scholars. Fortunately, new developments in literary analysis, such
as structuralism, have made possible a more systematic study of China's
new literature in terms of its own needs, structures, and traditions. Nev-
ertheless, the general lack of information about contemporary China has
led to an abnormally heavy Western demand on Chinese literature to serve
as documentary material, and studies of the literature by literary scholars
have also been influenced by this demand. Further, since political and
social forces have exerted such strong control over literary products, the
literary scholars must give more than usual weight to the external circum-
stances of literary production and consumption, a focus that inevitably
detracts from autonomous textual studies.

Third, until very recently, literary sinology concerned itself only with
the written genres such as poetry and the great vernacular novels, and
ignored non written, oral literature. \n studies of modern Chinese works,
the practice resulted in a very narrow and biased view of the contemporary
cultural scene, since in some ways the conventional written literature is
one of its most rigid and unattractive cultural forms. This limitation is
now disappearing, due to changes in social thinking and recent advances in
scholarly analysis of oral and popular works. These essays reflect some of
the Hrst efforts to extend this broader analysis to the contemporary per-
forming arts.

Attitudmal Problems
Our most serious problem is the attitudes or values with which we
approach the literature and arts of contemporary China. Literature has
traditionally been a very value-conscious discipline, and in literary criti-
cism and theory even the term "literature** is often synonymous with
*'good literature." The dioice of a literary topic for study often implies
approval of the quality of the work or works involved, and it becomes

Copyrighitxl material

xii

PREFACE

taken for granted ihat only "good literature" is gcninnely worthy of suidv.
In consequence, bad or merely indifferent literary works are either ignored
or are written about with indifference or hostility. Most written contempo-
rary Chinese literature has been perceived by Western scholars as bad or
indifferent, and the study of contemporary Chinese culture has suffered
accordingly. The Tolstoyan distinction between literature/nonliterature
and good/bad literature has only marginally affected Chinese literary
studies, but at least it points to the theoretical possibility that bad litera-
ture also has literary devices, structures, and genre requirements, for ex-
ample, and can thus be of interest to literary scholars. It would clearly be
absurd if political scientists and historians were to study only societies or
institutions of which they approved — ^and, in faa, the reverse has often
been true. It therefore seems academically indefensible for literary scholars
to avoid or dismiss material that offends their sensibilities, solely on these
grounds.

Is the study of contemporary Chinese literature and art, then, to be
value-free? Again, the analogy of history and political science seems valid.
It is important that we do not allow our values to distort our perceptions
of contemporary Chinese culture, and also that we do not confuse our
values with those of the society that produces and consumes that culture.
But this in no way implies that we must discard our values in our assess-
ment of that culture. Evaluation is both an extremely useful tool in intel-
lectual analysis and ultimately the justification for any litcrar)' criticism.
Equally, we must avoid adopting a double standard (with its patronizing
overtones) toward contemporary Chinese culture, since our position as
Western scholars in regard to both Western and Chinese studies depends
on our integrity as outside observers. Above all, we must remain conscious
of our own identities and not pretend to be speaking on behalf of the
whole or of any section of the Chinese people.

Possibilities for Future Studies
There was considerable agreement at the workshop that studies of both
written and oral literature should take as their starting point the texts
themselves. In the past, most studies on modern and contemporary litera-
ture and art have focused on the biographies of writers and performers,
their contribution to intellectual history, die sociopolitical context of their
works, and content analyses of works for studies of policy changes. All of
these are valid approaches, but they are not the concern of literary studies
per se. The information gained from such undertakings is generally avail-
able from other sources (perhaps more reliably), and the special qualities
of literary works are ignored. If on the one hand, our ultimate aim is to
understand the society through the works of culture it produces, then a
more valid approach is first to understand the internal logic of that cul-

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PREFACE xiii

ture: its forms, its traditions, and its styles. A whole range of analytical
techniques can help in that understanding: those of mythic, structural,
semiotic, formalist, comparative, and genre analysis, to name some repre-
sented at the workshop. Once made more accessible through literary and
artistic analysis, the material can be more readily drawn on for different
scholarly or humanistic purposes.

If, on the other hand, we wish to focus on the literary text itself, we
may use sociological analysis to study patterns of cultural production and
consumption. The material conditions of writers, performers, and audi-
ences may be direcdy relevant to the literary work. It can readily be
established that, in China, neither the Party nor the literary bureaucracy,
nor writers, performers, and audiences constitute monolithic and static
blocs. Beyond that negative assurance, however, we possess very litde
reliable and systematic information about the sociological dimensions of
Chinese creativity.

The cultural scene as a whole consists of a wide variety of genres and
forms. When performing arts are studied alongside written literature, and
popular arts are given the same depth of analysis as elite forms, phe-
nomena such as the strength of the traditional heritage in contemporary
Chinese culture become more apparent. The broader perspective also al-
lows the study of genre transposition: when a story or theme is shifted
from one genre to another (e.g., from novel to opera, or from opera to
film), we have an opportunity to observe what is common to both — ^i.e.,
not genre-specific, but perhaps imposed by political necessities. The picture
of contemporary Chinese literature and performing arts that emerges when
these two factors are studied in conjunction with each other shows more
variation, in range and in quality, than has perhaps generally been as-
sumed. By no means have all previous judgments been overturned. Some
have been conhrmed. But comprehensive studies similar to those under-
taken here should lead to a better understanding of what was produced in
these three decades and of why it was produced in just these ways.

Finally, many workshop participants drew attention to the need for
contemporary scholarship to develop a readiness to tackle the ongoing
literary and artistic scene in China, despite the high risks of mistakes in
judgment involved. The alternative is to leave the held to journalists or
Other nonspecialists, whose mistakes and misinformation would be at least
as great as any we might be guilty of. Even more importandy, our ig-
norance of the contemporary cultural products may preclude a full and
accurate gathering of information and material that later generations may
never have the opportunity to acquire. A more attractive reason for study-
ing the present scene is that just now, at the turn of the decade, it is
probably more lively and varied than at any time since the 1930s and
1940s.

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xiv

PREFACE

The preparation of a manuscript as lengthy and diverse as this is not an
easy task, nor is the process of submitting it for pubUcation and shepherd-
ing it into final book form a simple one. 1 should like to thank all the
contributors to this volume for their patience, goodwill, and cooperation
over a period of several years. 1 should also like to thank the following
people without whose advice, encouragement, and active assistance I
doubt that the transformation of manuscript to book could have been
achieved: Cyril Birch, Perry Link, T. D. Huters, Edward Gunn, Patrick
Hanan, Rulan Chao Plan, John Berninghausen, Merle Goldman, Ezra Vo-
gel, Anders Hansson, and Sophie Sa. 1 am also most grateful to Virginia
Mayer Chan, who typed the manuscript and shared many unrewarded
hours on the index. Finally, on behalf of the contributors, 1 want to
express our very deep appreciation to Mary Lamprech of the University of
California Press, our capable production editor, and to Joyce Coleman for
her highly skilled and infinitely patient copyediting of an unusually intract-
able text.

BONNIH S. McDoUGALL

Harvard University

Copyrighted

NOTE ON ROMANIZATION

The romanization used in this book is based on the hanyu pinyin system
now in use in the People's Republic of China; it replaces the Wade-Giles
system formerly in common use in English-language material. Some place
names and personal names not formerly spelled according to Wade-Giles
are kept in their more familiar form; for example, place names in post-
office or older spellings (Peking, Canton) and personal names spelled idio«
syncratically or according to non-northern dialects (Y. R. Chao, Chiang
Kai-shek).

Conversion Table
from Wade-Giles to hanyu pinyin

Chiang Ch'ing

Jiang Qmg

Chou £n-lai

Zhou Enlai

Chou Yang

Zhou Yang

Ch*u Ch*iu-pai

Qu Qiubai

Ch'u Po

QuBo

Ho Ch'i-fang

He Qifang

Ho Ching-chih

He Jingzhi

Hsii Chih-mo

Xu Zhimo

Kuo Mo- jo

Guo Moruo

Lu Hsun

Lu Xun

Mao Tse-tung

Mao Zedong

Pa Chin

Bajin

TengPo

Deng Tuo

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NOTE ON ROMANiZA HON

Tsang K'o-chia Zang Kejia
Ts'ao Yii Cao Yu
Wen 1-to Wen Yiduo

PARTI

The Ground

Prepared,

1937-1949

ONE

Folk Art as Propaganda:
The Yangge Movement in
Yan'an

David Holm

The year 1942 is widely regarded, both in China and liy scholars in the
West, as a watershed in the history of modern Cdiinese hteraiure and the
arts. After the dehvery of Mao Zedong's I'allvs at the Yan'an 1 oruni on
Literature and Art" and the hterary rectification campaign of the same
year, nothing was ever quite the same for the writers and artists working
in the Chinese Communist Party's wartime base areas. Since then, hterary
and artistic production has been subject to Party control and direction,
and professional writers and artists have been recruited periodically into
popularization work for various mass campaigns. The negative effects of
this system on the quantity and quality ot serious literature produced since
then, and particularly after 1949, have been much discussed; until re-
cently, however, the active implications of Party policy and the effects of
this policy on less exclusive, more popular genr» have received little atten-
tion. Even for the study of prose fiction, however, the close connection
between art and politics in China is bound to present die scholar and
student with a special and peculiar range of problems. How do we assess
works that, whatever else they are, are propaganda for an official point of
view or that at least stand in close relationship to the views of some
seaion or other of the political and cultural apparatus? How useful under
these circumstances are the usual methods of evaluation developed by
literary critics in the West?

It has been suggested a number of times in recent years that, rather than
evaluate Chinese literary production solely in terms of our own values and
in light of our own ideas about literary excellence, we should also measure
it against the yardstick of the rather different values professed by the
Chinese. Well and good, but there are a number of pitfalls apart from the
obvious one of mistaking the official Chinese position for unofficial opin-

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DAVID HOLM

ion at various levels. We must seek to understand something about Marx-
ism-Leninism — not just in the abstract, as a system of beliefs or set of
sacred texts, but also as it functions in Chinese society as an ideology. If
we take, say, a contemporary novel, read it through, and analyze it, we
will no doubt find that it propounds in some way or another the various
tenets of Marxism-Leninism and Mao Zedong Thought. This is not very
surprising, or very interesting, either. Such an analysis would teU us virtu-
ally nothing about how that particular work is intended to function in
society, or about the actual effects of die work on a readership or audi-
ence. These are important considerations, since the whole rationale of
revolutionary literature and art, in practical terms — ^and an important
strain in the Chinese Communist Party's literary ideology — ^was that litera-
ture and art should contribute to a liberation of mass energies and provide
correct motivation for revolutionary action. To make any serious attempt
to gauge these e^cts, however, we would have to go much further than
we have been accustomed, not only in our reading of texts but also in
relating the ideological formulations in those texts to wider phenomena.
These phenomena would include traditional notions and motifs, fragments
of popular discourse, and the salient events of recent history both official
and unofficial.

This kind of approach is particularly appropriate for the study of mass
movements. Cultural mass movements are generally very difficuh to assess,
if only because of the sheer amount of activity involved, yet their impor-
tance in the cultural life of millions of Chinese can hardly be ignored. One
of the most distinctive phenomena of contemporary Chinese culture since
1942 is the officially sponsored mass movement based on a single literary-
artistic genre. The yarigge movement, launched in 1943, was the first of
these and, as such, the forerunner of the revolutionary folksong of the
Great Leap Forward period and of the revolutionary model Peking opera
of the Cultural Revolution years. A study of it will shed light not only on
Mao's "face-the-masses" orientation in literature and art and on how it
came to be interpreted in practice during a formative period in recent
Chinese history, but will also highlight the continuing tension between
populist and "elevating" perspectives, both within the Party's own cultural
apparatus and in the Party's artistic ideology.

ART AND PROPAGANDA

A concern with the "educative function" of art runs like a red thread
through the whole range of the new art and literature produced under
Party guidance after 1942. Yet for a number of reasons Western scholar-
ship — ^most notably in the favored field of prose fiction — has chosen to
ignore this aspect of Chinese art or to deal widi it in a simplistic manner. It

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FOLK ART AS PROPAGANDA

will help, for a start, to draw some elementary distinctions between art
and propaganda. The general feeling is, of course, that propaganda is
lies — m the words of Dr. Goebbels — and that therefore a study of propa-
ganda will yield nothing of value except perhaps a moral lesson on the
wickedness of totalitarian regimes. I would suggest that, on the contrary,
propaganda is interesting — and revealing — precisely because it is an at-
tempt to manipulate and persuade.' Of course, in recent Chinese history
propaganda has sometimes been formulated less with a view to persuading
the target population than with respect to various internal considerations,
such as pleasing the heads of propaganda departments or presenting a
particular ideological position in a **pure'' and uncompromising fashion.
Such, however, was ht from the case in the years before 1949, when the
Party was fighting for survival and pursuing a strategy of maximizing its
friends in order to isolate its enemies.

Propaganda, unlike literature and art, is generally thought of as emanat-
ing from organized political groups and is evaluated by the sponsor primar-
ily on how effectively it changes patterns of thinking and behavior in a
target population— or, put more negatively, on how it prevents people
from thinking and acting in certain ways. Artistic criteria may of course
play an important secondary role as a source of appeal; thus, works of
propaganda of a high artistic quality may be more effective, as propa-
ganda, than works that are, for whatever reason, less satisfactory artisti-
cally. This is particularly so when the target population is a section of
society that sees its traditional role as guardian of cultural values. Nev-
ertheless, in the eyes of the agencies commissioning or producing the
propaganda, artistic quality is a means to an end rather than an end in
itself.

Moreover, propaganda, unlike most literature and art, is designed ex-
plicitly with a specific audience in mind — a "receptive object" {jieshou
duixiang)^ as Mao put it in the Yan'an "Talks. Of course, literature too
may be written for specific sections of society — children's literature, for
instance, is literature nonetheless. But at least in the West there has been
historically a strong tradition that literature of quality is intended — to the
extent that the audience is envisioned at all in the process of creation — for
all humankind. Chinese writers in the early years of this century were very
strongly influenced by this idea of the universality of literature.

' I or an intcrestinji account of propaganda in general, see Jacques Ellul, Prnpagauda. The
Formation of Men s Attitudes (New York: Knopf, 1965). This work is mainly concerned with
industrial societies but also gives some account of propaganda in China.

' See the original text in Jiefang rihao [Liberation Dailyl, 19 October 1943, reprinted in
Takeuchi Minoru, ed., Mo Takuto shu (Tokyo: Hokubo sha, 1970-1974), 8:115. This and a
number of other "technical" terms were later removed from the text for the Selected Works
version.

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A corollary of this belief was the idea that literature — good literature at
least — is valid for all time. There has been much discussion in the field of
esthetics about why the literature of ancient Greece and Rome, for in-
stance, should still have meaning for readers living in a vastly different
society over two thousand years later. 1 he idea of writing or creating a
work of art for posterity, how ever, is in fact a specific historical phenome-
non. Premodern China had a strong tradition of the universality of art, but
many modern Chinese writers had lost contact with this native tradition.
Its modern Chinese incarnation can be traced back to the European En-
lightenment and the early Romantic movement. Modem Chinese vmters
and artists were heavily infected with this idea when they first came into
serious contact with the culture of the modem West. Propaganda, on the
other hand, is not ordinarily produced with eternity in mind. Rather, it is
intended to operate within a restricted time span and to retain relevance
for short periods only, varying from the medium term (several months or
several years) down to the very short term (one day or even several hours).

These general points also form the basis of the approach to propaganda
policy that the Chinese Communist Party developed during the early years
of the Red Army. As early as 1929, at the Gutian Conference, Mao and
other advocates of ''political warfare** developed a sophisticated and
highly articulated set of ideas on propaganda, which are set out in the
draft resolution of the conference.^ The resolution recognized that propa-
ganda work, in order to be effective, should have "time quality** {shijian-
xing) and "local quality" [difangxing). Two separate notions are involved
in time quality. First is the idea that propaganda should be appropriate for
the time of year; this was particularly important with propaganda directed
at peasants, who arc involved in an annual round of activity. Secondiv,
there was the stipulation that propaganda be up to date and reflect current
events. To the extent that it does so, of course, propaganda tends to
become out of date very quickly; w4ien the situation changes it loses its
value as propaganda and has to be replaced. In the Gutian resolution the
problem is mentioned specifically in connection with written media like
pamphlets and announcements, but it affected all media to some degree.
Obviously a great deal of variation was possible: in any well-organi/ctl
propaganda machine there would be a continuum between propaganda
pieces intended for general distribution over a long period of time and
those directed more specifically at a particular situation.

"Local quality** was also used in two senses, first that propaganda

* Text in Md Takuto shti, 2:77—126. See especially section 4, "Hongjun xuanchuan
gongzuo wenti" [Problems of prop:ig;inda work in the Red Army], pp. 1(J.^-1 16. The whole
text was reissued during the Yan'an period tor study by army officers and was subsequently
included in the standard collection of rectification documents for study by all Party cadres:
see Stuan Sdinm, Mao Tse-tung (Hannondsworth: Penguin, 1968), p. 233.

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should he couched in terms of local issues and local personalities, and
second that it should make use of local dialects and should he put into
words that local people without a high level of education could under-
stand. Both aspects of this concept were of cardinal importance in China,
with its patchwork of local cultures and dialects, where the horizons of the
mass of the population were generally very limited, hi practice, however,
the desirability of propaganda adapted to the local level had to be bal-
anced by administrative costs as well as by the abilities of the available
propagandists: in the transition from a general to a locally specific form,
propaganda lost much of its relevance and effectiveness in other locations,
and new versions had to be prepared for each locality. The result was that
propaganda was produced with varying degrees of local quality: di^rent
media worked on different levels, some with broad regional coverage and
others at the level of the county, parish, or village.

The Gutian resolution also embodied the recognition that propaganda
increased in effectiveness the more it was direaed specifically at particular
sections of the population. Party propaganda was henceforth to be pro-
duced and directed not just at the masses "in general,** but at a range of
distinct social groups with different cultural backgrounds, occupations,
and levels of education. It is interesting to note that social dass, as usually
defined in Chinese Communist writings, was regarded, impliddy, as much
too coarse a filter for the organization of effective propaganda work. For
example, the resolution urged that propaganda not only be directed at
vagrants {liumang) separately, but also that differences in the lifestyle and
character of different occupational groups within this dassification (gam-
blers, beggars, watervendors, and so forth) be taken separately into ac-
count. I shall be dealing in this paper mainly with the Party's attempt to
reach the peasantry, but it must be borne in mind that neither Chinese
rur:i] nor town society was as simple as the formula "workers, peasants,
and soldiers" would lead us to suppose. Since the Maoist Strategy for
revolution w as basically to form the broadest possible alliance among the
people while picking out enemies, both domestic and foreign, one by one,
the above guidelines implied that the Party's propaganda apparatus should
direct propaganda at virtually every group and stratum of C hinese society.
Taken to its logical conclusion, this policy meant, in effect, replicating all
the ideological complexities of that society.

For another point raised in the Gutian resolution was that all targets of
propaganda were to be addressed in terms of their own specific psychology
and within the terms of their own experience, not merely in terms of
general political issues: the general was to be linked with the particular.
"Propaganda must fit in with the emotions of mass struggle, but apart
from issuing general slogans tor an uprising, there must also be slogans
appropriate to the daily lives of the masses at a level below that of the

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DAVID HOLM

emotions of mass struggle.*' The implications of this proclamation are of
almost importance for later developments. All pre-existing values, world-
views, and modes of expression, all the forms of China's "old culture" as
they existed in the minds and collective experience of the Chinese people
within particular social milieux, were potentially, at least, grist for the mill
and could be linked to the new political ideals and manipulated for the
furtherance of revolutionary aims. The use of '*old forms" of literature and
art, then, was simply a particular manifestation of a muc^ more funda-
mental strategy in the Party's political work.

This, then, was the tradition of propaganda and political work brought
to the wartime Border Region of Shaan-Gan-Ning (Shaanxi-Gansu-
Ningxia) by the Red Army. During the Yan*an period (1937-1945), large
numbers of writers and artists from the metropolitan cities and treaty
ports came into contact with this tradition for the first time. The complex
and convoluted character of developments in cultural policy during the
Yan*an period before 1942 largely stems from the interactions between the
Red Army tradition and the very different left-wing ethos of prewar
Shanghai.

This is not to suggest that the urban wing of the Communist movement
in China was entirely unfamiliar with the principles outlined above. The
call to "make use of old forms" was heard repeatedly throughout the
1930s, and indeed the policy documents of the League of Left-Wing
Writers made specific reference to the use of old forms as a means of
making contact with the urban masses.^ The idea can be traced back to the
instructions and techniques communicated by Soviet advisers in China in
the early days of collaboration between the Communist and Nationalist
parties. In Shanghai, however, by common admission, there was a great
deal of debate about literary popularization (that is, the popularization of
prose fiction) and very little actual experiment or practice. Nevertheless, it
is important to review briefly the terms of the debate, tor these were later
to provide the theoretical basis for the yangge movement in Yan'an.

THE DIALECTIC BETWEEN OLD AND NEW FORMS

One of the foremost advocates of the use of the old forms in the years
before the war was Lu Xun, a man with a much wider experience of
Chinese culture and society than many of the literary youths he sought to
advise, who were largely products of a new Western-oriented education in

^ Ziu^an zhiweihui [Left>Wiiig League Hxecutive Committee], "Zhongguo wuchanjieji
geming wenxuede xin renwvi" [The new tasks of Chinese proletarian revolutionary Hterature]
(1931), in Beijing shihin daxue /hongwen xi xiandai wenxue iiaoxue gaige xiaozu, ed.,
Zhongguij xiandat wenxue shi cankjo ziliao [Reference materials on the history of Chmese

modeni literature] (Pekii^: Gaodeng jiaoyu diubaiuhe, 1959), 1:290.

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the arts. Lii Xun argued, along with the Party spokesmen Qu Qiubai and
Zhou Qiying (Zhou Yang), that old forms of art, if used selectively in the
service of the revolution and combined with new content, were capable of
giving rise eventually to new and distinctive forms of art. His expression of
this point in a 1934 essay was later adopted by Party spokesmen as the
classic formulation of the official Party viewpoint:

To work on behalf of the masses and strive to make things easy for them to

understand — precisely this is the correct area of effort for the progressive

artist. If we select from old forms, there will necessarily be parts we have to
delete. And because ot these tlclctions, there will necessarily he parts wc have
to add. This will result in the emergence of new forms, and will itself be a
transformation.^

This essay was addressed to an audience more concerned about litera-
ture, and especially new forms of literature, than about effective communi-
cation with the masses. Lu Xun was clearly prepared to argue that form
and content were separable, that new wine could be put in old bottles.
Other writers were much less positive, and were quick to point out that
the musty smell of old bottles would almost certainly taint the new wine
with which they were filled. The truths of Marxism-Leninism, in other
words, or of modern science and democracy, would be distorted in the
process of transmission if expressed via literary-artistic forms more appro-
priate to a semifcudal and semicolonial stage of social development.

The idea behind Lu Xun's suggested transformation of old forms into
new forms, however, was eminently respectable in terms of Marxist-
Leninist philosophy, where operations involving the categories of form and
content were a part of the tradition of dialectical materialism then current
and popularized in China during the 1930s by Ai Siqi in his best-selling
book Dazhong zhexii^ [Philosophy for the masses],^ In dialectical termi-
nology, the contradiction between old form (thesis) and new content (an-
tithesis) gave rise to new form (synthesis) on a higher level. This process,
which involved the simultaneous transcendence and annulment of the old
form, was referred to as "sublation" {Aufhehufig or, in Chinese, yangqi).
A corollary of this view was that, in the last analysis, it was changes in
content, and indirectly in social life, which gave rise to changes in form;
content, in other words, determined form. The implications of this conclu-
sion for the use of old forms were double-edged, since it could be argued

- Lu Xun, "Lun jiu xingshide caiyong" [On the use of old forms], Qiejieting zawen {May
1934), reprinted in Zhongguo ximdai wenxue shi cankao z^ao, 1:305.

* First published in 1934, it went through numerous editions both before die war and
after; it has recently been reprinted. Ai's book was basically a simple exposition of dialetical
materialism ns it w.is t.iught in the Soviet Union at the time. The following summary is based
on his section on the categories "form" and "content."

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DAVID HOLM

that new content simply required new forms — the genres of art and litera-
ture, that is, introduced from the modern \Vest7

Given the widespread dislike of the old Chinese forms among the
urban intelligentsia, the cultural policy that grew out of this type of
dialectical analysis in the early years of the War of Resistance was essen-
tially an eclectic one. In line with the forced pace of cultural change
demanded by the Party, writers and artists experimenting in the use of
old fomis weie expected to retain those features of the old form that
fitted in with the new political content while "courageously" discarding
features that openly conflicted with it. Any resulting gaps were to be
made good by borrowing techniques from the new forms of art imported
from the West. Similarly, writers and artists using the new European
forms were asked to incorporate gradually more techniques and motife
from Chinese popular tradition.*

This at least was what was supposed to happen. Owing to a number of
factors, however, it was only after the literary rectification of 1942 that
the policy was really applied consistently to professional writers and art-
ists. One of the main reasons for the delay was the widespread opposition
to any "use of old forms." The beginning of the war in 1937 saw the use
of old forms of art for "Save the Nation" propaganda on a very considera-
ble scale, not only by dedicated Communist writers and by writers of the
May Fourth tradition, hut also by rural populists, opera companies, dagu
("drum**) singers, and the like. Many of these productions were extremely
crude, artistically speaking, and it was soon discovered that the attempt to
reach a mass audience in one particular area often rendered the work of
art unintelligible both to a nationwide audience and to mass audiences in
other areas. Inevitably there was a revulsion against activity of this type.^

it was partly in order to stem the tide and change the terms of debate in

' Support for this viewpoint was widespread il not predominant in intdlectnal and artistic
drcks, and advocates of it induded sudi people as Hii Feng, Al Qii^ Lao She, and Wang

Shiwei. See on this point D. L. Holm, "Art and Ideology in the Yenan Period, 1937-1945*
(D.Phil, dissertation, Oxford University, 1979), pp. 17-36. On Wang Shiwei in particular see
D. L. Holm, "The Literary Rectification in Yenan, 1942-1943," in Kubin and Wagner, eds.,
Essays in Contemporary Chinese Literature and Literary Theory (Bochum: Brockmeyer,
1982).

' Such a two-pronged approach to sinification had many adherents, since it allowed
everybody to continue what they were doing already (more or less). During the national form
debates it was developed theoretically by the writers and critics of the Lu Xun College, led by
Zhou Yang. A particularly clear example of the approach is Zhang Ceng's essay "Xiju
minznhua yu jitiju xiandaihua'* (The sinification of drama and die modernization of old
opera], in Hu Feng, ed., Minzu xitigshi taolun ji [Collected discussions on national form]
(Chungking: Huazhoiig tushu gongsi, 1941), pp. 66-68.

' l.ao She, for insrancc. who was very actively using old forms for mass prop-ij^vunla m the
first year or so of the Resistance War, later came to the conclusion that new wine could not
be put in old botdes. See Holm, **Art and Ideology," pp. 35-36.

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FOLK ART AS PROPAGANDA

favor of the use of old forms that Mao issued his famous statement of
October 1938 on "national form" {minzu xmgshi).^'^ This was only partly
successful, however. Neither on that occasion nor in the more extended
treatment he gave the subject in "On New Democracy" did Mao pomt out
exactly which aspects of the folk tradition were "fine flowers" and which
were "feudal dross**:^' the choice was regarded either as self-evident or else
as a question to be solved on the level of artistic practice. The result was,
however, that theory never became in any real sense a guide to practice;
rather, it remained a general framework to bridge over wide differences of
opinion inside and outside the Party. Moreover, the revulsion against old
forms was much too strongly and deeply felt to be seriously deflected by
political speeches.

This was particularly the case because certain strands of argument in
the tradition of Marxist-Leninist esthetics provided ample justification for
such prejudice. According to this view, art was a produa of the stage of
society that produced it. Old forms — ^diat is, traditional Chinese folk and
popular genres— were products of a feudal or semifeudal society, while the
new forms of art imported from the West were the reflection of a society
at the higher, capitalist stage in human history. Old forms were therefore
inferior to new forms, which were more ''scientific'' and "advanced" in
every respect. Thus, with the ineviuble advance of human society, old
forms were bound to be replaced completely, sooner or later, by new
forms. In spite of the many logical inconsistencies in this argument (the
Chinese forms labeled "old" were frequently more recent in origin than
the European **new" forms), it was one that not even the foremost advo-
cates of cultural populism were prepared to challenge.*^ Thus, by the early
1940s the use of old forms came to be regarded almost universally among
literary youth and Party writers and artists in Yan*an as a temporary
expedient only — an artistic dead end.

THE RECTIFICATION

It was against this background that Mao and the cultural populists
launched the rectification of 1942. As is well known, Mao in his "Talks"
of May 1942 dealt mainly with the political issue^ — the ni^hr of the Party to
''lead" literature and art — but he also took the opportunity to launch a

Holm, '"Art and Ideology," pp. 54-55. For die original text see Mo Takuto shu,
6:260-261.

" Mao Zedong, Selected Works, 2:339-384, esp. pp. 3801 Cf. M6 Takut6 shu, 7:20l£
For disciusim, see Htdin, "Arc and Ideology,** pp. 54-55.

See, for instance, Ai Siqi, "Jiu xingshi yunyong dt- jiben yuanze" [Basic principles of
employing old forms), in Wenyi zhanxian [Literary battlefrontl 1:3 (April 1939): 17-20.
Reprinted in Zhongguo xiandai wenxue . . . , 1:740-748.

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DAVID HOLM

counterattack against the prevailing unwillingness to experiment with
folk forms by unveiling and providing theoretical backup for his "face-
thc-masses orientation in literature and art." Though Mao underplayed
the issue ot national form, and preferred to allow the implications of his
policy to sink in gradually, his formulations were intended to encourage
the use of the local North Shaanxi performing and visual arts. They also
allowed, however, an eclectic approach that combined native with Euro-
pean forms. Mao presented the same ideas in a more clear-cut, less
theoretical way a few days later in a speech he made at the Lu Xun
Academy of Art and Literature (Lu Xun yishu wenxue yuan; usually
referred to as ''Luyi") outside Yan*an. No text of this speech has ever
been issued, but the contents and key phrases are known in outline from
a number of reminiscences.*^ Speaking allegorically, Mao recalled how
impressed he had been with the majestic pine trees he had encountered
high in the mountains during the Long March, and observed that they
had all started life as seedlings no bigger than beansprouts. Writers and
artists, he said, were not to despise the ''beansprouts'* of the popular and
folk tradition, for these too were pine seedlings and could in die future
grow to be majestic pine trees. The folk arts, in other words, could give
rise to great art of a world standard.

The literary rectification campaign that followed in the summer and
autumn of 1942, when writers and artists in Yan'an were set to work
studying policy documents and discussing them in light of their own
experience, was intended to reinforce these points and to prepare both
professional writers and artists and the literary youth for mobilization on
an unprecedented scale as a ''cultural army." This goal entailed their
transfer from Yan'an down to the countryside to take part in basic-level
work in the villages, often to serve as village schoolteachers or xiang
(parish) secretaries while organizing "literary amusements" {wenyi yule)
in their spare time. Mao's policy also envisaged the potential participa-
tion of millions of peasants and soldiers in locally organized cultural
activities. As a focus for these efforts, the yafiggc movement was
launched in Yan'an during the Spring Festival of 1943 — ostensibly to
celebrate the abrogation of the "unequal treaties" by China's allies but
clearly also to herald the beginning of the "age of the new masses"
proclaimed by Mao at the Yan'an Forum,

See He Qifang, "Mao zhuxi zai *Liiyi* de tanhua yongyuan guwuzhe women" [Chair-
man Mao*s speedi at Lityi will always inspire us], Renmrn xifu 9 (1977): 7-11. Also Ba 29ii,
"Zui zhenguide yike" [A most valuable lesson], Beijing wenyi 6 (1962): 16-17. It was also in
this speech thnt Mao rn.icic reference to "Big Luyi" and "Little Luyi" — a distinction between
the narrow contines ot the art college and the world outside that was meant to remforce the
mentality suitable for xiaxiang.

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THE OLD YANGGE

**Yangge" was the name given in North China to the dances, songs, and
variety acts performed by amateur, peasant artists during the New Year,
and especially during the Lantern Festival. The Party's decision to adopt
yangge as the basis for its new direction calls for some comment. Like

other mass movements launched in early 1943, the yangge movement was
based on pre-existing social formations — **old forms," that is — and also on
precedents culled from earlier Chinese history.'^ The use and adaptation
by Chinese rulers of songs and dances current among the people, both for
court ceremonial and for purposes of public instruction, has a long history
in China, dating back at least as far as the Shijing [Book of songs]. More
specificalK , the staging of large-scale public spectacles of a kind not unlike
yangge has been an act characteristic of newly established, strong dyna-
sties; it is meant to signal a return to correct government and an era of
Great Peace {taiping). Such, for instance, were the Great Rejoicings {dapn)
held at the beginning of the Song dynasty."" Against this background, the
Party's decision to mount large-scale celebrations of yangge in 1943
amounted to a claim on the Mandate of Heaven.

There were also other reasons, both ideological and practical, for the
choice of yangge. In the first place, the songs, dances, and short plays
performed during the New Year were the most highlv developed and
conspicuous torm of cultural life in the villages ot mam areas of North
China. As the basis for a Party-sponsored village drama movement, yangge
had a number of advantages over other dramatic genres. Unlike Peking
opera, Qinqiang (Shaanxi opera), or even the local forms of little opera,
daoqing and Mcihn,^ yangge was performed largely by amateurs. Yangge
troupes were also found in far greater numbers than were opera compa-
nies; statistics collected in 1944 indicate that for twenty companies per-
forming old opera m the Shaan-Gan-Ning Border ilegion, and sixty-two
putting on shadow shows, there were nine hundred and ninety-four active

Mark SLldct). The Yenan Wdy m Ref/o/ttfiOMtfry Cl^md (Cambridge: Harvard University
Press, 1^71), pp. 208-274.

'* See on this point Yang Yinliu, Zhun^uu ytnyue shigang [A drait history ot Chinese
music] (Shanghai: Wanye shiuiiaii, 1953), passim.

Piet van der Loon, "Les origines ritudles du cheitre chinois,** Journal aaatique (1977):

149.

' On litioqitig and Meihn svc Hulni, "Art and Ideology," pp. ^I'^-I^h. I hese genres
were pertormed by scmiprotessioiuil troupes from the villages and their repertoires included
many numbers that portrayed everyday life in a burlesque or forctcal manner. They were thus
quite different from the hereditary professional genres, with their highly elaborate music and
repertoire of historical plays and court scenes. See further Wu Junda, "Shan'ge xiaodiao dao
xiqu changqiang de fazhan" [The development of hillsong and popular ballads into opera
singing], Ymyue yan/iu 1 (1958): 78-106.

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DAVID HOLM

yafigge troupes.'*' Then, too, there was the collective nature of the yangge
dance itself: troupes often numbered sixty to one hundred dancers, and
included most if not all of the able-bodied men and boys of the village. It
was this characteristic, together with the peculiar density of yangge
troupes in the countryside, that led specialists in the 1950s to describe
yangge as ** intimately connected with the lives of the people."

Another attraction was the name ^'yangge*" itself. As usually written
(*'rice-sprout song"), it suggested that this was a form that developed from
songs sung by peasants while transplanting rice seedlings.*^ As an account
of the origins of yangge this is highly questionable. There is no doubt,
however, diat it was ideologically a very useful notion, because yangge
could then be used to **prove" the Marxist theory of the origins of art in
the rhythms of productive labor. This theory had been given its fullest
expression by the Russian Marxist Plekhanov in his Vnaddressed Letters —
a text well known in China througji Lu Xun*s translation of 1930.^

Equally important, however, was the fact that yangge was already well
known among the Chinese intelligentsia through the efforts of earlier,
non-Communist rural reformers. Particularly important here was the Bap-
tist Mass Education Society and its model xian (county) project in Ding-
xian, Hebei. Publication of the society's Dingxian Yangge Collectton of
1933 — a collection of forty-eight playscripts from the repertoire of local
yangge societies — set in motion a minor fashion for yangge and similar
types of folk music among the urban intelligentsia.^' The editors of the
coUeaion, Li Jinghan and Zhang Shiwen, were not slow to point out the

Shaan-Gan-Ning yizu, "ZUeban," Jiefang ribao [liberatioii daily], 12 December 1944,
p. 4; reprinted in Zhou Yang or il., Minjian yishu he ytren [Folk art and artists] (Zhangjia-

Icou: Xinhua shudian Jin-C ha-ji tcndian, 1946), p. 67.

" This was a view popularized by Li jinghan and Zhang Shiwen in their introduction to
Dingxian yangge xttan [Dingxian yangge collection] of 1933 (repr. Peking: Guoli Beiping
daxue Zhongguo minsu xuehui, 1937), and later by Sidney Gamble. Lt and Zlhang noted the
locally current story that Su Dongpo, while serving as magistrate of Dingzhou, invented
yangge for the consolation of peasants transplanting rice, but they reserved judgment on the
substance of this tradition (p. 2).

^ See the publisher's introduction to Puliehannuofu, Lun yishu (meiymt dk^idexin) [On
art — unaddressed lettersl, trans. Cao Baohua (Peking: Shenghuo dushu xinzhi sanlian shu-
dian. 1 ''"'3), for details of the first Chinese edition. For an English translation, see G. Plekha-
n()\ . I u.uidressed Letters on Art and Social Life (Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1957). Plek-
hanov s work, based largely on the work of late ninctccnth-ccntury anthropologists in the
South Seas and other areas, made possible a comparison between yangge and other Chinese
folk performances and die "primittve" rites of tribes at a "primeval" stage of development.

^' There were commercial gramophone recordings of yangge in the 1930s — by, e.g., RCA
Victor. Dingxiiin vanj^ge xuan was originally publishetl hv rhe Mass Fducarion Society in
1933, and was reprinted n\ duoli Bciping daxue /hongguo minsu xuehui minsu congshu,
vols. 37-40, 1937. For an tngiish translation of these plays see Sidney D. Gamble, Chinese
Village Plays from ^ Tmg Hsien Region (Amiterdam: Philo Press, 1970).

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potential of yjngge as a basis for social education and for the reform of
old customs in the coimtryside. The Dingxian project was brought to an
abrupt end by the Japanese unasion, but many of its methods and rural
refortn programs were later adopted by the Communist Party for use in its
own base areas.

By 1939 yanggf had become the centerpiece of a flourishing village
drama movement m West Hcbci, a base area immediately to the west of
Dingxian. There, for Women's Day of 1940, for instance, "a big congress
of over ten thousand women was held in Pingshan xian, and participants
witnessed a large-scale performance by women's yangge troupes from sev-
eral tens of villages — a total of one or two thousand performers.**" Such
activities were much more highly developed in West Hebei at this time
than they were in Shaan-Gan-Ning. A detailed knowledge of these devel-
opments finally reached North Shaanxi in the latter half of 1942, when a
professional drama troupe from the area was transferred to Yan*an for
discussions with Party leaders and cultural personnel.^^

All of this is not to suggest that North Shaanxi yangge was an ideal
medium for Communist Party propaganda or for its efforts in mass educa-
tion. Reports from observers visiting Yan*an in 1944, and accounts by
other apologists for the Party, have given the impression that the Party*s
reform of yangge was somehow straightforward and unproblematic.^^
Such was not the case, as will become apparent from an examination of
the basic character and features of yangge as it existed before the Com-
munist Party's reform. Yangge was, we should remember, an observance
both religious and secular in nature. Typically, yangge included a proces-
sion through the streets and from door to door, a large-scale figure dance
with or without lanterns, stick dances and mock combats, a hobby horse
{zhuma), a boat on dry land {hanchuan), wheelbarrows (tuiche), donkey
dances {paolu), a lion dance, a dragon-lantern, and a number of short,
obscene skits of the one-dan one-chou (one-female one-down) t\ pc.^*
Most of these numbers are of great antiquity in China, and parallels for

Claire and William Band, Dragmi Fun^s: Two Years with the Chinese Gtierrillas
(London: Allen and Unwin, 1947), p. 134. The Dingxian cullectiun was also available in
Yan'an during the war and was well known to the cultural leadership. See, for instance, Zhou
Yang's 1944 essay **Biaoxian xinde qunzhong de shidai" [Portraying die age of die new
masses], in Ai Siqi et a!., Yangge lunwen xuanji (A selection of essays on yangge\ (Dalian:
Zhong-Su youhao xiehui, 194"!, p. 1 1.

Kang Zhuo, *'Nongminde guanghui" ( I he glory of the peasants], Wenyi bao 2 (20 May
1949): 5.

^ This was Zhandou fushe ("The Batde Theatre Troupe"), a professional troupe attached

to the 1 10th Army under He l ong. See Holm. "Art and Ideology," pp. 235-238.

See, for instance, Gunther Stein, The ChaUenge of Red China (London: Pilot Press,

1945), pp. 173-177.

A list ot the genres perlormcd m Yan'an is given by Zhou Vang, "liiauxian xin," p. 7.

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many of them can be found in F.iiropean folklore." Not all were per-
formed in every locality, and in North China the emphasis varied consid-
erably from place to place. In Dingxian, for example, the dramatic element
in yiuigj^e had undergone considerable development under the influence of
local varieties of opera, and the dances and variety acts had been divided
among separate organizations. In other areas the dramatic clement was
minimal and various forms ot dance predominated.

The name of yangge also varied. For one thing, the word "yartgge"^ itself
was written in a variety of different ways: "rice-sprout song" in Dingxian
(hence standard modern usage); *'etevated song" in Peking, where stilt-
walking was the main fonn of perfonnance; **yang song"* (as in yin and
yang) in Jiaxian, North Shaanxi; **brave elder brother" in Chaozhou; and
''cockatoo" in Guangdong.^ This variation in itself is enough to suggest
that the ''rice-sprout song" theory of the origins of yangge may be no
more than a folk etymology. The problem is too complex to go into here,
but it is interesting to note that even some of the Party critics preferred to
reserve judgment on the etymology and to look more closely at the perfor-
mance and its context. Zhang Geng, ior instance, was led to observe that
yangge was essentially a religious ritual, and one whose basic ritual func-
tion could be traced back to the Great Exorcism {Nuo) of Han times.^'

There is in fact a great deal of evidence for this view: if in some areas any
original meaning had been forgotten by the participants themselves, and the
performance of yangge carried on simply as a customary observance, in
other areas yangge retained its significance as a ritual well into the twentieth
century. In Huimin xian, Shandong, on the fifteenth of the first month,
performers gathered in the village temple to bum incense and make offer-

" Notably the hobby horse, Inrge-scale carniv;il figures, stick dances, and the boat on dry
land; tor tlic latter see Van der I.oon, "l.es ongines rituelles," pp. 148-150. The h)!k play is
similarly characterized by its quality' of obscene buffoonery, and includes such characters as
the Dragon, the Quack Doctor, the Turk, and die Old Man and Old Woman clowns who
beat each other with sticks. See E. K. Chambers, Tib« EngU^ Fott Play (1933; reprint ed.,
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1969).

For the i'eking yjtigge see l.i Jiarui, Beipittg st4qu luc W sketch of the popular airs of
beipingj (Beiping: GuoU Zhongyanjj yanjiuyuan hshi yuyan yanjmsuo, 1933), p. 182. For the
Jiaxian transcription see Shanxi sheng Jiaxian xumxhi (1933 edition), 2:17a. For Chaozhou,
see Moubu wengongtuan wudao yanjiuzu, "Yingge,** in Zhongguo wudao yishu yanjiuhui,
ed., Zhongguo minjian geunt [Chinese folksong and dance] (S!i im^hai: Wenhua chubanshe,
1957), pp. 103-107. For Guangdong, see Xu Kc, Qing hat lei chuu jC'lassified transcriptions
of Qing trifles] (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1918) 78:74. The problem ot nomenclature
is further complicated by the lace diat yangge was not always called '^yangge'': in general
yoHgge in die Nordi corresponds widi huagu ('*flower drum") in the South, but even m the
North there are local and regional variations.

Zhang Ceng, Yangge yu xin geju [Yangge and the new opera) (Dalian: Dazhong
shudian, 1949), p. 2. For the Nuo, see Derk Bodde, Festivals m Classical China (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1975), pp. 75-127.

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ings, and danced yan^ge after the completion of the sacrifice. I he purpose
of the dance, as explained to Party cultural workers by an old dancing
master, was "to draw in the souls of the dead and ensure that they pass tiie
New Year in peace and happiness; otherwise, the dead would take ottense,
demon tires would till the land, and there would he such an uproar that the
living would not be able to pass the New Year peacctully."

Here, at least, the "target audience" was not so much a particular social
stratum or even living humanity, but rather the inhabitants of the spirit
world — that is, the souls of ancestors and wandering ghosts.^^ Indeed, we
can discern in yaugge, as in other rituals connected with Chinese popular
religion, two partially overlapping functions: exorcism and placation. The
idea of exorcism — driving out evil spirits, and especially plague demons,
beyond the confines of the village — ^is uppermost in the lion dance and in
the displays of martial arts,^^ while that of placation and entertainment is
predominant in yangge dances and folk plays. In yangge dances particu-
larly the basic concept seems to have been to lay before the spirit audience
a panorama of peace, prosperity, and reproductive vigor, and by this
means to obtain their blessing and assistance for the coming year. The
expense of the various productions and spectacles put on during the New
Year was part of this display, as were also the eroticism and energetic
activity of the yangge dance and folk play, the avoidance of inauspicious
words and actions, and the recurrence of Great Peace {taiping) and other
traditional motifs.

Let us take a closer look at various aspects of the performance. The
traditional celebration of yangge took the form of a procession from door
to door, called pat menzi in North Shaanxi. It was rather like trick-or-
treating: the troupe would be welcomed into a courtyard, would perform
songs and dances for the benefit of the household, and would ask for gifts
of money. Generally the troupe visited only the more prosperous families
in the village or performed numbers only when gifts of money were forth-
coming. While in the courtyard they would also make offerings before the
shrine to the Lords of Heaven and Earth and the "Hundred Offices" of the
pantheon on the family's behalf. The troupe, it was supposed, thus
brought spiritual favor on the household. Yangge was also performed in

^ Li Zhijun, "Shandongde daguzi yangge" [The Big Drum yangge of Shandongl, Wudao
1 { 1 960) : 1 9. Li interprets this ritual functioii, however, as a recent accretion and a distortion

of the original meaning of XiV7j^(;c.

" Van dcr Loon, "Les ongincs ntiiclks," pp. 152-154,

^~ (Sun) Jingshen, "Shanbei Jiaxiande yangge" IThe yangge of Jiaxian in North Shaanxi],
in Zhongguo miniian geum, p. 81, on pat menzi. For the offerings performed in the a>urtyard

see P. J. Dols, "La vie chinoise dans la province de Kan-sou (Chine)," Antbrupos 12—13
(1917-191 Si: lOOH, and Jiefang ribao, 18 February 1945. For a description of the altar see
Albert Nachbaur and Wang Ngen Joung, Les images populaires chinoises (Peking: Na Che
Pao, 1926).

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cities. Upon entering the city of Chengde in Rehe (Jehol) troupes from
outlying villages went first to the temple of Guandi and the Founder's
Temple {/jishi miao) to greet the gods, then to the yamen, and finally
through the big streets of the city, performing at merchant houses.

Performance of the big yati{^{^e dance [da yaug^e) was usually followed
by a series of yanggc songs, led by the "umbrella dancer" with the rest of
the troupe responding in unison; this type of song was called lingcbang.
After this came the performance of "little dances" {xiao changzi) per-
formed by two, three, and sometimes six or eight dancers, variety acts Hke
the boat on dry land, and folk plays like Zhang sheng xi Ymgying [Scholar
Zhang flirts with YingyingJ. During these numbers the rest of the troupe
sat in a circle around the outside. The performance ended with another big
yangge dance, during which the Umbrella leader sang a few verses, usually
improvised, thanking the hosts for their generosity, and the troupe then
moved on to another location.^

The leader of the procession in North Shaanxi was called "the Um-
brella** {santou) because he wielded an open umbrella which he used to
direct the movements of the other dancers in the troupe. In one early
description from Zhenzhou (present-day Yizheng in Jiangsu), this char-
acter is identified as Wang Kuazi the Seller of Quack Medicine; there he
wore a high white felt hat and a white goatskin riding jacket turned
back-to- front, shook a horsebcll in one hand, and held up an illuminated
umbrella-lantern in the other. The same character is found in many other
areas of China, in Peking yangge, in the huagudeng of the Bangbu-Fengtai
area in Anhui, and in several regional systems of Shandong yangge as well.
Among North Shaanxi peasants the original significance of the umbrella
seems to have been forgotten, and people interpreted it as a prayer for

ram.

Manv (irher comical characters in bizarre and colorful costume made
their appearance in the procession and dance, including the Big-Headed
Priest [Datou heshang) and the coquette Liu Cui — both of whom wore
masks — an old woman clown and an old man cknvn, a fisherman, a fire-
wood gatherer, the innkeeper's boy {xiao erge), the Eight Immortals, and
Scholar Zhang and Yingying. Many of these characters are of considerable
antiquity: the Big-Headed Priest and Liu Cui are first mentioned in Song
sources. They, and other characters as well like the Tinker ihngafig jiang)
and Lady Wang [Wdfig dauiaug), appeared not only in the procession but
also separately in "little dances" performed by two or three people.

^ Karel de Jaegher, "Customs and Practices," Folklore Studies 6, 2 (1947): 91.
^ Wei Tianxi, "Shanbei gongzuo sanji" [Random notes on work in North Shaanxi],
Wudao 4 (1959): 22.

^ (Sun) Jingshen, "Shanbei Jiaxian." For Zhenzhou see Li Xiutang, Zhenzhou zhuzhi ci
[Occasional poems on Zhenzhou] (1857; reprint ed., Taiwan, 1958), pp. 26-27.

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The most prominent part of yangge in North Shaanxi, as elsewhere, and
the first item in the pcrforniaiicc, was the big ytinggc dance/'' This was .1
large-scale number, performed by the whole troupe, in which lines ot
dancers were led by "the Umbrella" through a series of dance figures. The
first of these figures was ahiiost invariably a simple circle around the
dancing arena — a lustration, as it were, to set the boundaries of the enclo-
sure. This was called "running the perimeter" ipdo dachiUig). it was fol-
lowed by a succession ot other, more decorative tigures such as "Scissors
handles," "Dragon thrashes its tail," "Serpent coils round nine eggs,"
"Double lotus lantern," "Cabbage heart," and so on. Some figures bore
reference to popular mythology, like "Eriang shoulders a mountain,"
while others like '"Coiled rhombus" {panchang) were traditional symbols
of good luck in the decorative arts and thus had a votive function. While
the repertoire of these dance figures varied somewhat from locality to
locality, many of them were standard all the way across North China. The
troupe accompanied these dances with songs wishing good luck and happi-
ness to their hosts.^^ Another form of dance common to big yangge was
paired dancing, in which troupe members performing male and female
roles danced opposite each other and sang in turn songs of the question
and answer type, like ''Duihua" [Guessing flowers]. The poet Ai Qing
observed a dance of this kind in Yan'an before the Party's reform of
yangge; he noted that its charaaer was essentially erotic.^*

Closely related to the **little dances'* but more dramatically developed
were the folk plays of North Shaanxi. These went by various local names;
in the Yan'an area they were commonly called ''little dance plays'* {xiao
changzi xf).^' This was the genre that the Party adopted after 1943 as the
traditional prototype for its new form yanggefu — ^the yangge play. In
North Shaanxi, however, these plays were relatively simple and short,
compared with the elaborate stage plays of big opera genres or even the
plays of Dingxian yangge. They were usually performed on the ground
rather than on a stage, and in musical and dramatic form were not all that

^' T\^^■ Ji u.icters vary somewhat from locality to localiry. Some, like the Big-Headed

Pricsr .uul i lu ( ni. ire foiinJ all over ( hm.i. For .1 review of i-.irly rt-ferfncfs «;ec Dong Xijiii,

"Songdaide "wudui' ]i qita" [Song dynasty 'dance troupes,' and other matters], Wudao 4
(1979): 49-51.

^' For dance figures see Hu Sha, "Huiyi Yan'ande yangge" [Reminiscences of yangge in
Yan*an], Wudao 4 (1959): 29. For Manchurian yangge see He Jian*an, "Dongbei yangge,** in

Zhongguo mmjian gewu, p. 75.

^' Ai Qing, "Yanggejude xmgshi," m Ai Siqi et al., Yangge lunwen xuann, pp. 23-24.
Translated by D. Holm in John Beminghausen and Ted Huters, eds., RevohttUmary LUera'
tun in China (White Plains: Sharpe, 1976), p. 72.

Hu Sha, "Huiyi Yan'an." In Jiaxian they were called xiao huihui ([Sun] Jingshen,

"Shanbci Jiaxian"); in East Gansii xido {;u<:hi i"lirtlc stories"), di taizi ("stage on the
ground"), or zhuanzhe ("excerpts"): jtejang rtbao, 18 February 1945.

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DAVID HOLM

different from song and dance. They were generally performed by two or
three characters only, and the dramatic action was conveyed in the lyrics
by means of a combination of narrative and indirect dialogue [daiyanti)^
usually interspersed with riddling songs of the question and answer type.
Such, for example, was the level of dramatic form in the play Xiao fdrigmu
[Ihe little cowherd], a play mentioned m Mao's "Talks."

In the plot of this play, a young village girl loses her way and asks a
young cowherd for directions; he teases her rather than give her a direct
reply and she, not to be outdone, returns his banter and makes fun of him.
The play ends with the couple plighting their troth, and the dance, we may
suppose, was also erotic. Available texts of the play, however, suggest that
the story line was really only a peg on which to hang a series of riddling
songs whose lyrics were not necessarily connected with the plot.^ The
songs in these plays are close to, if not indistinguishable from, folksong
both in style of delivery and in musical form: that is, they are delivered in
a simple style without a great deal of ornamentation and without the
elaborate instrumental interludes characteristic of more highly developed
dramatic forms. Lyrics were in stanzas of two, three, or four lines and
were characterized by rhythmic freedom and large numbers of "padding
words" {chenzi) and nonsense syllables.

The subject matter of yangge plays in North Shaanxi was also quite
different from that of big opera. Unlike opera, with its emphasis on his-
torical themes, court scenes, and battles, yangge plays were particularly
strong on scenes from everyday life, presented in a farcical manner. These
included domestic quarrels, as in Tan qin [Visiting relatives] and Xiaogu
xian [The virtuous daughter-in-lawj; fortune tellers and geomants, as in
Xiazi suanming [A blind man tells fortunes]; child marriages, as in T«Z/
niao chuang [Baldy wets his bedj; and henpecked husbands, as in Ding-
detig [Carrying a lantern on the head]. Like folk plays elsewhere in the
world, many of these were obscene in both lyrics and dance movements.

It can be readily seen that some of the songs, dances, and skits included
under the general heading of ""yangiie^' were of more use to the Party than
others. Flexible numbers with some dramatic content were held to be more
promising than dances for the display of technique or set ceremonial
pieces. Clearly, a successful effort to supplant the old yangge in the villages
would have to produce a new version for every significant item in the
repertoire. Yet even with the most favored genres — the big yangge dance
and the yangge play — considerable modification of the old forms was
required before they could serve as the basis of a mass movement spon-

^" /h.iiifi Cit-ng, Yangge yu xin ^eju. p. 6. For text with music see Zhonpgiio minjian
yinyue yarijiuhui, ed., Yangge quxuan [A selection of yangge songsj (Yan'an: Yingong hezuo-
she, 1944), nos, 76-78.

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FOLK ARl AS PROl^AGANDA

sored by the Party. How then did the Party set about the reform of
yuuigge} Which elements of form did cuhural workers retain, as the valu-
able "essence," and which were eliminated as feudal "dregs"?

THE MODEL YANGGE TROUPE: LUYI IN SPRING 1943

The initial reform of yungge was undertaken in Yan'an for the Spring
Festival of 1943 by the Propaganda Troupe of the Pu Xun Academy of Art
and Literature. This was a group of musicians and diamaiists formed
originally for the purpose of putting on a New Year's evening party for the
staff and students of the Academy. The original performance is said to
have consisted entirely of locally current folk forms, including yangge, a
boat on dry land, a wheelbarrow dance, shulaibao recitations, and a song-
and-dance flower drum/^ Such were the humble and informal beginnings
of what soon became a very big propaganda troupe, involving the mobil-
ization of a large part — perhaps a majority — of the staff and students of
Luyi.

The process of reform was later described by Party spokesmen as ''from
the masses, to the masses." As in other areas of political action to which
the rectification work-style was applied, the first step was local investiga-
tion {dtaocha yanjiu). The first performances by die Luyi troupe were
based closely on the yangge as it was performed in Qiaoergou, the village
where Luyi was located, ten li east of Yan'an. These performances were
almost entirely traditional. Thus the procession and dance included many
colorful charaaers of a traditional type: a priest in a yellow-tasseled robe,
wearing comic makeup and a small red piguil; an old woman clown with
chili peppers dangling from her ears, who carried two clubs of the kind
used for washing clothes; an old man down; and a character dressed in
white trousers and a white jacket — ^probably the stupid young gentleman
{sha gongzfh-vfith red circles under his eyes and his hair done up in a
pigtail. The troupe also included, however, more modern types like Eighth
Route Army soldiers, workers, students, and even Japanese generals and
"Chinese traitors."*^

After performances in early February 1943 before audiences that in-
cluded Mao and other members of the Party leadership, however, there
was a radical change in the character and tone of the troupe's perfor-
mances of yangge. The traditional characters were abolished and their
place taken by "a column composed of a great alliance of workers, peas-
ants, soldiers, students, and merchants." The role of the Umbrella dancer
was Ukewise abolished, on the grounds that it served a superstitious func-

^' Ren Ying, "Huiyi Wang Dahua," Beijing wenyi 5 (1962): 14.

Li Bo, "Yan'an yangge viindongdc pianduan huiyi" [Fragmentary reminiscences of the
yangge movement in Yan'anJ, Betjmg wenyi 5 (1962): 22.

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DAVID HOLM

tion, and his place at the head of the troupe was taken by a worker
wielding a hatchet and a peasant bearing a sickle. Not only the makeup of
the clowns but also the clowning disappeared: actors were expected to
make their characterizations entirely positive, and a serious and conscien-
tious attitude became essential. Negative types like Japanese generals and
Chinese puppet troops also disappeared, on the grt)unds that the big
yangge dance symbolized the unity of the people and could not include the
enemies of the people.**^

Basically, in this "protestant reformation," as it were, of the yangge
dance, the yangge troupe was taken to symbolize the "new people." From
this all else followed: the ideology of New Democraqr and rectification
was read out into artistic form and content. Thus, characters appeared in
this new yangge as representatives of social classes and strata in the New
Democratic four-class bloc They appeared, moreover, in order of their
relative ideological importance in the Party's mass base, with the working
dass in the lead, followed by the peasants, the army, and so forth. One
might well wonder whether the new characters should be regarded as
characters at all: as personifications of whole social classes, they were
closer to allegorical figures.

During later stages of the yangge movement, however, writers and art-
ists realized that diis initial reform had deprived the form of much of its
traditional color and appeal, especially with peasant audiences, and they
took steps to reintroduce variety into the characters and dances. For the
Spring Festival of 1944, the big yangge performed by the Public Security
Office troupe included the follow ing types, all dancing in different styles
and carrying props that identified them to the audience: an old man widi a
tobacco pipe, an old woman carrying a basket, a young married woman
clutching a baby, a little boy carrying a big sword blade of the kind used
for sentry duty, a militiaman holding a red-tasseled spear, an Eighth Route
Army soldier with a rifle, and a peasant shouldering a mattock. The selec-
tion of colors for the costumes was also meticulous and reflected local
custom. 1 he young married woman, for instance, wore a pink shirt and
trousers, with a skirt tied round the waist, and had her new-born baby
wrapped up in a coverlet of red silk; the old woman wore a wide jacket of
blue cloth and a dark brown w'aistcoat with a wide border on it. Although
negative characters were still banned from participation in the big van^ge
dance, and the comic element was not restored to its former place, many
additional aspects of the original folk performances were reintroduced. We
see here the emergence of a new set of village stereotypes, corresponding to
and replacing the old stock characters of traditional yangge. Subsequently,

• Ibid.

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it was this type of yangge dance, rather than the more severe Luyi model,
that became the basis for the new yangge in North Cliina.'*^

Let us also consider briefly some of the other formal aspects of the
transformation of yangge. Musically, the performances of the Luyi troupe
represented a combination of Western elements and the native folk tradi-
tion. The orchestra accompanymg the troupe, for a start, was composed
not only of the traditional Chinese flutes {dizi) and percussion section — ^big
drums, big gongs, and cymbals — ^but also included seven violins and, ac-
cording to one account, a cello. The violin was the most popular Western
instrument in China at this time and, before 1942, had featured in concerts
of Western music at Luyi that included such numbers as "Viennese Rhap-
sody," performed by musicians dressed formally in ties and tails.^^ The
yangge movement marked a break with this style of performance, but the
music played by the propaganda troupe was stiU Western in style, in spite
of the fact that most of the melodies were taken from local folksong. This
was not surprising, considering that the musicians at Luyi were trained in
the Western manner; only in the latter half of 1942 was the study of
folksong and local opera made an essential part of the curriculum.'^'^

Apart from locally current folksong — ^like the tune "Da huangyang**
[Beating the yellow sheep] used for the number "Support-the-Army Drum
Song" — the Luyi troupe also borrowed melodies from the revohitionary
songs of the Red Army, early-war National Salvation songs, and Meihu, a
genre of little opera populari/cd in the Yan'an area by the Popular Masses
Drama Troupe {Muizhoug jutiian)^ led by Ke Zhongping.' New words
were set to all of these "old tunes" — in keeping with the propaganda tasks
laid down by the Party leadership — celebratmg the abolition of the un-
equal treaties, the return of foreign concessions, and recent victories by the
Soviet Red Army and publicizing the deeds of labor heroes and the Party's
Great Production movement. In many cases, however, the new lyrics were
composed in a way that closely followed the format and style of tradi-
tional yangge songs: for example, a song of the "(iiiessing Flowers" type
with lyrics composed by the poet He Jingzhi. Like its traditional counter-
part, it was meant to be sung antiphonally:

A: Which kind of flower blooms facing the sun?

Which kind ot men support the Communist Party?
B: The sunflower it is that blooms facing the sun.

The common people support the Communist Party.

Hu Sha, "Hiiiyi Yan'ande yangge," Wiuiao 7 (1959): 34.
Hu Sha, "Huiyi Yan'andc yangge," W'udao 6 (1959): 33.
^ Holm, "Art and Ideology," pp. 81-84.

^ See Ding Ling, "Minjian yiien Li Bu" [The folk artist Li Bu]» in Zhou Yang et al.,
Mittfian yishu he yiren, pp. 11-18.

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DAVID HOLM

A: Which flower blooms and is on rhe body worn?

Which the man whose words are engraved in our hearts?
B: Cotton flowers bloom and are on the body worn.

It's Chairman Mao whose words are engraved in our hearts.
A: Which kind of flower blooms obstructing the road?

Which are the demons that should be rooted out?
B: Corse it is that blooms and obstructs rhe road.

it's the fascist demons that should be rooted out.''^

Many of Luyi's efforts were admittedly rather crude — ^tnuch more **cnide
and simple" both musically and thematically than the performances by
local troupes — ^but they were first efforts of people who had for the most
part very Uttle previous knowledge or experience of working with folk

forms.

In the dance, too, the first step in the reform of yangge was a radical
simplification. This was necessary if yangge was to become the basis for
the Party's cultural mass movement and accessible to amateurs with little
previous experience. The traditional yangge dances of North Shaanxi,
though performed by uneducated peasants, were anything but simple.
Though no detailed or even adequate descriptions exist, recently publisht-d
materials and information on the dance in other areas would suggest that
there were perhaps as many as a hundred different elancc steps.'** TratHi-
tional yafii^ge was highly organized; troupes trained for the forthcoming
New Year throughout the winter months, under the guidance of a yangge
dancing master {l)i.7shi). The Luyi reform seems to have reduced the num-
ber of basic dance steps in the big yangge dance to about three to four,
including the well-known three-steps-forward, one-step-back method. This
style of dancing yangge was called "twisting a yangge" {niu yangge): the
shoulders of the dancer moved in the opposite way from the legs and hips,
thus inducing a twist at the waist.

Within these limits the new yangge was choreographically conservative.
There was little change in the dance figures performed in the big yangge
dance; only one major innovation was made: the '*five-comered sur**
formation, hailed by Zhou Yang in 1944 as a new creation.^^ The most
important difference between old and new, however, was the elimination
of sexuality. As one later dance pamphlet put it: **There used to be many
degenerate elements in performances, like sexual love, and the postures of

"Qizhi hua" [Seven flowers], with lyrics by He Jingzhi and music by Du Shijia, Jiefang
ribao, 23 March 1943.

Lii Feng and Wang Changteng, "Shanbei yangge," Wudjo 4 (1978): 51-55, and
Wudao 5 (1978): 43—47, describe seventeen separate steps, but this is clearly a selection from
a much larger number. For Shandong see Liu Zhijun and Zhou Bing, "Shandong miniian
wudao xuanjie" (Selected introductions to Shandong folk dances], in Wudao 1-3 (1977).

Zhou Yang, "Biaoxian xinde qunzhong de shidai," p. 10.

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the dance were also very lascivious, full of raised shoulders and flashing
waists. We have thoroughly reformed these aspects of the dance."^' After
1943, the movements of the dance were variously interpreted as ordinary
walking movements, exaggerated and set to rhythm, or else as a develop-
ment from the movements of manual labor. In one new style the dancers
threw their arms out sideways, imitating the broadcast sowing of grain.

The crowning achievement of the Luyi Propaganda Troupe, however,
was the reform of the folk play and the development of a new hybrid
prototype that would serve as a model for the subsequent village drama
movement. This was the play Xiongmei kaihuang [Brother and sister clear
wasteland], afterward hailed as one of the first fruits of Mao*s **face-the-
masses orientation.*'^^ It was created collectively by the leading members
of the Luyi troupe and, like the troupe's other productions, was a hybrid
on every level of form. The music, for instance, was specially composed for
the occasion, but was based closely on the hexatonic scale used in Meihu
and retained the characteristic intervals and rhythmical patterns of this
genre. Onstage, the new form contained the elements of yangge dance
steps and yatigge "little dances,** combined with dances portraying pin si
cal labor, and elements of spoken drama {huaju) were also combined with
some of the symbolic techniques of the old opera.

The plot of this short play is very simple and serves to illustrate the
contradictions underlying the Party's reform of the old genre. At the begin-
ning. Elder Brother comes on stage with a mattock over his shoulder, tells
us how good life is now in the Border Region, and then starts clearing
hilltop land. When he hears his younger sister coming with his breakfast,
he decides to play a trick on her and pretends to be asleep. In the dialogue
that follows, she chides him for his laziness, while he makes excuses.
Finally she threatens to go to the district governniem to have him "strug-
gled" (publicly criticized) as a layabout. Realizing that things have gone
too far. Elder Brother is forced to admit his deception and the play ends as
the two are reconciled and return with renewed vigor, mattocks flailing, ro
the task of clearing wasteland. The high point of the play is the song and
dance portraying the activity of labor.

Zhang Ceng, then head of the drama department at Luyi, gives us the
inside story of how this plot took shape:

With Brother and Sister Clear WasteLuuI wc first studied the otic tnalc-onc
female form of folk yaugge. Now with this otu- male and one tcnialc there
must be a plot and a few flirtatious incidents. But several points here are
fundamentally different from the old yangge. Old yangge describes the old

^' Gao Geng, Yanggewu [Yangge dance] (Shanghai: Xtnfeng she, 1950), pp. 5-6*
^ Ai Siqi, "Cong diunjie xuanchuan kan wenyide xin fangxiang" [A look at the new
orientatioii in arts £rom Spring Festival propaganda], yie/iiiig ribao, 25 April 1943.

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DAVID HOLM

society and old personalities, while this play portrays the new society and
new personalities. In old yangge there is a heavy atmosphere of sexuality;
here that cannot obtain. Old yangge was entertainment pure and simple;
here we must have educational significance. There are also several points in
common: both require a lively, happy atmosphere; both should be short and
simple and resolve themselves within a short space of time. Hence, in order
to drop the sexual element, we took the man and wife — a malc-female rela-
tionship that could give rise to rather a lot of sexuality — and changed it into
one which absolutely could not elicit sexual responses, the brother-sister
relationship. And again, if we were to start up some kind of plot, the best
way of doing this would have been to have a confrontation between one
advanced person and one backward person. We must, however, portray the
new personalities of the new society: if out of two people we make one
backward, surely this is fifty percent? Now that is just not true, and not
realistic. If both of them are positive characters, however, how do we de-
velop a story line? The result was that we thought up a way of dealing with
it, by having one character deliberately play a joke on the other, in this way
the activism of both people is brought out.^'

Two points in this passage require particular comment. First, Zhang
Geng confirms that male and female roles (originally one dan and one
chou) were cast as Elder Brother and Younger Sister in order to try^ to
prevent the peasant audiences from seeing the play, out of habit, in the
traditional way — as a flirtation skit. It is hard to say to what extent this
stratagem succeeded: in the peasant speech of the North Shaanxi area gege
("elder brother") and meimei ("younger sister") are the common terms of
address between husband and wife and between lovers. Secondly, the artis-
tic ditticulties that result from too literal an interpretation of the Marxist
theory of reflection are particularly apparent here. The official, rather
sanguine view of Border Region society leads to the construction of a play
in which the characters are one hundred percent positive and in which plot
development results only from one of die characters assuming a false,
''backward" identity. On the one hand, the plot is quite literally a joke;
thus there is downing in the play, but no clowns. Hie contradictions
between "old form" and "new content" are, as it were, encapsulated
within the structure of the play, resolved only by artistic sleight of hand. In
this stria sense Brother and Sister Clear Wasteland was of limited use as a
model play, since the formula it embodied could not really be applied over
and over again to the creation of other plays without risk of becoming
very stale. On the other hand, even if the ideological justifications for it
were rather tortuous, the formula adopted did provide a way of preserving
within the play the traditional elements of banter and argument. At least in

Zhang Ceng, Yangge yu xin gefu, pp. 16-17.

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this respect. Brother and Sister Clear Wasteland was better than some of
the plays that came after it, which lost the comic element entirely. Ihe
ideological situation, in any case, was later relaxed.

This, then, was a play that could he seen in ditlcrciu ways by diftcrent
strata of society. Some indication of the persistence of traditional precon-
ceptions is to be found in a report on a slightly later New- Year print
{nianhua) of the play:

Brother and Sister Clear Wasteland was seen by the illiterate peasantry as
"man and wife clear wasteland" [fnqi kaihuang). Even though it was ex-
plained to them, they persisted in thinking that "brother is being lascivious
with sister" {gege xiang meimei saoqing). This was in direct conrtict wuh the
artist's intention to portray activism in production. The "misunderstanding"
dius elicited was a resuh of not having carefully considered whedier or not
die image itself was enough to convey enthusiasm for labor. Here we see
merely exa{^erated and lively gestures diat have no connection with the
social position of the characters.^^

Brother and Sister Clear Wasteland was soon hailed as a new form of
drama, the yanggeju Cyangge play"), also known as the jietou yanggeju
(**street yangge play"). This form, it was claimed, had been developed
directly from the more inchoate, subdramatic forms of North Shaanxi folk
yangge; it thus represented ''elevation on the basis of extension" and was a
concrete case of artistic evolution in action. As was also the case with
yangge dances, the central plank in this reform of the yangge play was the
eUmination of sexuality. This development was of the utmost importance,
because it changed fundamentally the basic character of the folk play. It
would also have implications for the Party's treatment of a wide range of
other traditional performing genres in the years ahead.

In the Party's ideology, the presence of sexuality in the old yangge was
ascribed to the distorting influence of the landlords. Zhou Yang noted in
an influential essay that, on the one hand, the flaunting of sexuality was
the peasants* way of resisting and sabotaging the feudal order and feudal
morality in a society where other paths of expression were blocked; with
the overturn of the feudal order in the countryside, he argued, such a

mechanism was no longer needed. On the other hand, the erotic element
was also explained as a means of "titillating the landlords"' {saoqing
dizhu). With an end to feudal oppression in the villages, ot course, tenant
farmers would no longer be forced to participate in yani^gc against their
will, and there would no longer be a need to cater to the tastes of a
decadent k)cal elite. The important point about both these explanations is
that sexuality could thus be decried as a later and alien accretion, due not

^Jiefang ribao, 18 May 1945.

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to the people themselves but rather to the patterns of dominance and
subordination in feudal society.^*

Much the same kind of argument was used to justify the abolition of the
clown roles and their replacement by serious characters. Zhou noted that,
in the old yangge procession, improvised jokes and clowning were often
direaed at soda! superiors and at the existing order: a parallel, Zhou
noted, with the plays of Shakespeare, where the common people often
appeared onstage in comic roles. ''However," he went on to say, under
the conditions of the new society, the status of the litde clown is entirely
changed. The Border Regions and base areas find themselves under a
dynasty where power is in the hands of the workers, peasants, soldiers,
and popular masses: the people are masters — ^diey are ^e emperors — and
are no longer little clowns."^' Thus the clown roles, too, were declared
obsolete and redundant in the new society. While there were important
positive reasons for this decision — the Party was anxious that the new
yangge should perform a serious educational function — there must also
have been a concern with problems of control, since the sharp wit and
ridicule could also have been turned against the Party.

In artistic circles, within Luyi and elsewhere, the problem of how much
of the original character of the yangge play was to be retained remained a
conicniious issue throught>ut the rest of the Yan'an period. In 1943 this
was discussed largely in terms of quwei, "appeal" or "amusement." It
became an issue partly because Mao had warned against "low appeal"
[diji qiiivci) at the Yan'an Forum the previous, year, and partly because the
Luyi troupe had introduced humorous and burlesque elements into its
performances. After the Spring bestival of 1943, u must have seemed to
many literature and art workers that the new drama movement was in
danger of going the same way as the wemningxi (modern drama) of the
early twentieth century — that is, of drifting from serious-minded reform
towards vulgarization and an abdication of artistic and moral standards.^
By 1944 two schools of thought had arisen in Luyi, with one group in
favor of longer plays with more huafu elements and less folk coloring, and
another, smaller group in favor of short song-and-dance plays that re-
mained close to the style and flavor of the original folk plays. Ma Ke*s
¥uqi shizi [Man and wife learn to read] and He Jingzhi's Zaishu [Planting
trees] are products of the latter school.^*^

" Zhou Yang, "Biaoxuin xin,** p. 11.

Ibid.

' (Cheng) Anbo, "You Luyide yangge chuangzuo tandao yanggede qiantu" [The future
of yangge on the basis of Luyi's yangge creations], Jiefang ribao, 12 Apti\ 1943.

^ Zhang Geng, *'Huiyi Yan'an wenyi zuounhui qianhou *Luyi* de xiju huodong" [Remi-
niscences of dramatic activities at Luyi before and afttr the Yan'an Fonun on Literature and
Art], Xiju bao 5 (1962): 10.

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1944 AND AFTER

These, then, are some of the complexities and contradictions that lay at
the heart of the Party's reform oiyangge. Internal disagreements about the
level of artistic form are, of course, important for an understanding of
Party policy toward the folk arts as it evolved in the years ahead. It is
equally important, however, to note how the model was adapted and
changed in the subsequent stages of the yjngge movement. Here the posi-
tive aspect of Luyi's reform of yangge came into play; the hybrid nature of
the new yangge, while felt to be a problem by professional artists and
dramatists, was intended to facilitate ad-hoc combinations of amateur
talent. The form of the new yangge, in other words, was not a set formula,
but rather open-ended and all-embracing — provided certain essential fea-
tures of the retorm were observed. Thus, for example, amateur troupes
were expected to make use of whatever musical talents were available and
to pertorm in whatever genres were current and appropriate for local
conditions. Hence, also, the emphasis on portraying contemporary scenes
from everyday life, which meant that expensive costume chests were no
longer a prerequisite for performance, since actors could borrow from
neighbors and relatives any items of clothing they required.

The second, wider stage of the yangge movement got under way in
earnest during the Spring Festival of 1944, when professional drama
troupes from Yan'an were sent out on tour to the outlying areas of the
Border Region, and celebrations in Yan'an itself were arranged on an
imprecedented scale using the resources of amateur troupes alone. If the
tours by the professional troupes were intended to provide models for
yangge troupes in the countryside and in the subregional capitals, and thus
to spark off a yangge movement in the villages, the celebrations in Yan'an,
in which some thirty troupes participated, were intended to give Party
cadres and office personnel experience in the creation and production of
short plays and song-and-dance numbers. The scale of the latter movement
was impressive. One report estimated that there were over two thousand
participants, and given that the total number of public personnel in Yan'an
was around twelve thousand, this indicates that roughly one person in six
was mobilized to take part in yangge performances.^'' This effort was
worthwhile not only for its immediate effects but also because it paid
dividends later on. Foreign correspondents visiting Yan'an in later 1944
were suitably impressed by the yangge performances they saw and, as a
result, the Border Regions gained favorable international publicity when
the visitors' reports were published. More important, the movement bore
fruit domesticall) in the years after 1945, when thousands of trained
cadres from Yan'an were deployed in the Party's base areas throughout

Holm, "Art and Ideology," pp. 275-277.

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North China and Manchuria. The yangge movement ensured that many of
them had had experience in organizing the production of propaganda
plays based on locally current genres.

Let us then examine some of the characteristics of the yangge move-
ment as it unfolded in these later stages. The same thinking that led the
Party to emphasize flexibility of form and adaptation of performances to
local conditions and locally available talent also led to an overall policy
sunmied up in three important slogans: ''Short and snappy** {Duanxiao
jhtghan), '*Self-composed and self-performed** {Zibian ziyan), and ''Real
people and real events'* {Zhenren zhenshi). The first was meant to en-
courage troupes to avoid undertaking the production of lengthy, "ele-
vated** plays of the kind to which professional playwrights aspired and to
for maximum energy and pace within a less ambitious framework.
The second slogan was promulgated as part of a general strategy of
encouraging the creation of plays by amateurs at the local level. This was
in part intended to avoid a repetition of the playscript famine that had
beset the Party's village drama movement in the early years of the war.
Even using mimeograph methods and printing scripts at the county or
subregional level, the Party had found it h.ird to ensure an adequate
supply for a mass movement because of paper shortages and lack of
sufhcient skilled personnel. If, under suitable guidance, local troupes
could be encouraged to produce their own new plays or to produce new
versions of old ones, these problems could be kept to a minimum: liter-
acy and paper would not be necessary.

Moreover, in urging local troupes to produce their own plays, the Party
hoped to increase the relevance of the subject matter for local conditions.
This is where "^real people and real events'* came in: the Party cultural
authorities argued that mass creativity could best be fostered by encourag-
ing people in local units to produce plays based on either their own experi-
ence of work within the unit or locality or on the experiences of well-
known local personalities, particularly labor heroes. Since labor heroes
were selected for every occupational group — and, in the countryside, for
every county and local district — as part of die Great Production Move-
ment of 1943, there was no dearth of this kind of subject matter. In this
way, it was hoped, plays would be produced that would reflect and publi-
cize local and near-contemporary events, rather than relying on second-
hand information or historical themes. The result of this policy was to
produce a kind of documentary drama, in which, not infrequently, the
''real people" themselves took part in a dramatic reconstruction of events
in which they had recently participated.

Such, for example, w^as the case with the play Zhong Wancdi qijia
[Zhong Wancai establishes his household], performed in 15^44 by the

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Army Legal Office I roupc in Yan'an.*" Zhong Wancai was a prominent
cx-layabout from a nearby village who had reformed himself and become
a labor hero; the play, divided into three acts, portrayed Zhong before,
during, and after his refonnation. Zhou Yang, who singled the play out
for special mention, noted that Zhong had not only supplied **coniprehen-
sive materials'* to the troupe but had also attended rehearsals and, when
the troupe performed in his own parish, was present in the audience at
almost every performance/* Both these points are confirmed by a report
on the play compiled by the Army Legal Ofiice Correspondents* Group,
which also makes clear that the intended audience for die play was very
localized — ^in fact, confined to a single district on the northwest side of
Yan'an municipality. In performance, also, the play was locally specific —
much more so than one would imagine from reading the text. The actors
systematically consulted with Zhong and his wife, after every performance,
about any points where diction or gesture may have departed from realis-
tic portrayal or strict authenticity. What is even more interesting, though,
is that the report also gives us a glimpse of how this type of documentary
theater interacted with village society:

The many opinions from the masses prove diat diis Idocumentary] direction
was correct. Zhong and his wife even called lots of neighbors over to watch
the play together. When they were performing the first and second acts the
pair hung their heads in shame, but when it canu to the third act he was

laughing out loud and taking cigarette^ out ot his belt and offering them
round. Afterward they saw it over again two or three times, and we repeat-
edly sought their opinions. He would always say: "What you perform is all
true — it was just like that, from bad to good! h's always best to make an
effort — otherwise how can you call it a transformation!" We questioned
him repeatedly . . . but he would smile and say: **It*s all real. Now diat the
public households have raised me up in diis way, we must work hard."
Because the characters and the events were well known to the masses, they
felt unusually familiar with them. For instance, when the locals of West
District saw the play, they started smiling as soon as they heard the names of
the characters, and were soon heard discussuig it: "Zhong Wancai's turned
good, but he'd better work hard — if he doesn't, this play will turn false,
won't it?" Without knowing it they had begun to assume the role of encour-
aging and watdiing over Zhong Wancai. At the same time the play educated
the masses (and especially die layabouts) more direaly; the parish head of
Third Parish, Wang Si, specially called touctlu r all the layabouts [erliuze] in
the parish to go and see it. After the Houjiagou layabout Li Mantang had

*" Text in Zhang Gcng, ed., Yangge iitxuijn (Peking: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 1977),
pp. 79-122. Original text published in Jiefang ribao, 19 March 1944, where it was subtided
fietou bijodaoju [A street reportage play].
Zhou Yang, '*Biaoxiaii xin," p. 8.

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seen the play, he made a resolution then and there to transtorm himselt and
resolutely declared to the village head: "I'm going to work hard this year. I
will plant twelve to thirteen shang [36—39 mou] of land, with my one
labor-power, and 1*11 even dare to compete widi Zhong Wancai!**^^

It is clear from this account that the close connection of the artistic
representation with local society in effect changes the whole relationship
between art and reality, and with it the whole meaning, in this context, of
a term like "realism." One possibility for hypothesis is that drama troupes
could become indebted to and perhaps even subject to manipulation by the
local society and '*real people** they attempted to portray. Plays of this
kind celebrating the deeds of local heroes could be counters in more than
one game, played out by a number of parties each with something to gain:
the labor heroes themselves, local cadres in search of concrete results to
show to their superiors, or whole local communities, seeking favored sta-
tus as **model villages. " More important, however, is that this type of play
was explicitly intended by the Party to have a direct educative effect on the
target audience; from the account quoted above and a host of other mate-
rials, it is clear that audiences generally recognized this and responded to
the Party's expectations in an overtly positive manner. That is, they may or
may not have been deeply moved, but they certainly said what they
thought the authorities wanted to hear, and ascribed great educative and
persuasive powers to the stage action.

Particularly noteworthy is the importance attached to participation in
the rituals of public confession and public oath-taking that followed the
performance. This is part of a much wider general pattern, for, during the
middle and later 194{)s, yimi>i^c and other plays were not simply performed
on their own, as a form of entertainment: they were more often than not
performed as an integral part ot mass meetings and other public occasions
of an actively political nature. In fact, the period after 1942 saw in the
Party's base areas a very rapid development, as the Party intensified its
efforts to penetrate village society, of a range of new rituals and riiual-like
observances designed to involve the masses as participants in public life
and to give expression to the values of New Democracy. Sudi, for ex-
ample, were the exchanges of gifts during the Spring Festival between the
army and the civilian population for the "Support the Army" and "Sup-
port the Government and Cherish the People** campaigns. The standard
gifts were pork and mutton, cloth shoes, and agricultural produce on the
one hand and help with spring plowing on the other — ^but it is interesting
to note that mutual visits often included the performance of plays, with
army troupes performing for nearby villages and villages performing for

"Zhonty \X'jtu\ii qiiij Jc chuantzzuo iinppuo" |On the process o( creating ZhoHg Wotl'
cat Establishes His Housebold\y Jiefang ribao, 28 January 1944.

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troops in nearby barracks.' ' Such exchanges were intcndeJ to symbolize
solidarity between these two sections of New Democratic society.

Other observances were intended to invoke the support ol" the pubhc, or
the pressure of local opinion, for indi\ idual transformations. Such was the
case in Zhong Wancai for layabouts, but mass meetings that included the
performance of yangge plays and culminated in aas of public confession
and resolution were also of major importance in the campaign against
secret agents of the Nationalist Party within the Border Region (the **con-
fession movement** of late 1943 and 1944) and in the campaign against
witch doctors (u/ushen) launched in mid-1944. Ding Ling, reporting on the
horse and mule fair in Zhuanyaowan, described a meeting of the wushen
campaign; it included the performance of an antisuperstition play that was
followed by denunciations and confessions from the audience.^ Similarly,
at public meetings to promote the production movement, performances
were often followed by ''declarations of war** from peasants resolved to
overtake the production record of the local labor hero. Frequently the
public declaration of such a "production plan** included a specific target —
either the amount of land to be cleared for cultivation, as in the account
above, or the amount of grain to be harvested. Great weight seems to have
been attached to these acts of public confession and oath-taking, and one
mav well imagine that they would result in considerable pressure on indi-
viduals to live up to their promises.

A word of caution, however, is necessary. The difficulty posed by all
such highly formali/ed patterns of political action is, of course, that they
do not necessarily bear any relation to what goes on privately or inter-
nally, "oftstage" as it were, and may indeed serve to mask the true situa-
tion from the eyes of the authorities. In other words, the Party was faced
with a problem of form and content: the ritualistic character of the peas-
antry's response to Party policy created a complex pattern of interaction in
which dramatic art and social life imitated each other and became increas-
ingly difficult to disentangle.

These, then, are some ot the ways in which the performance ot xjni^ge
plays operated within the villages as propaganda tor the "new society"
during the peak of the yangge movement in Shaan-Gan-Ning. Much more
research will be needed before the picture is complete. Thanks, however,
to the Party's insistent emphasis on basic-level investigation of audience
reactions, there is a wealth of material waiting to be tapped in base-area
newspapers and literary magazines. Even this preliminary investigation has
indicated fairly clearly that the new yangge — ^within certain limitations,

I'hese gatherings were called luinhnanhui ("linked enioyinent meetings" or, rather,
"parties"). See Holm, "Art and Ideology," p. 298, and Jiefang ribao, 28 January 1944.

*^ Ding Ling, "Ji Zhuanyaowan luoma dahui," in her collection Shaanbei fengguang
[North Shaanxi scenes], 2d ed. (Peking: Renmin chubanshe, 1951).

DAVID HOl.M

and together with other modes of pohtical action — was instrumental in the
development of a new pattern of formalized pubhc sentmicnt and deport-
ment among the peasantry.

GENERAL PERSPECTIVES

What can we say then, on the basis of this study, about the relationship
between the old and new forms in yanggei What, on the level of artistic
form, were the continuities and discontinuities? No easy answer that
covers all cases can be given. Genres like yangge that were singled out for
promotion to the national level, as it were, existed in a multitude of
different versions at different levels in society. With yangge the perfor-
mances at the local level remained close to the original "old form," while
the model "new yangge'' was elevated a considerable distance away from
it. In Luyi the method used to obtain this elevation was the elimination of
politically undesirable features, considerable simplification, and the reor-
ganization of traditional music and dance material in accordance with a
"modern, advanced, scientific outlook." The effect, moreover, of the pol-
icy of "walking on two legs" was to create an art that was a hybrid on
every level of form. Zhang Gcng observes that many artists had trouble in
combming Western methods of voice production irho so-cillod "foreign
throat," ycvjg sangzi)^^ with the open-throated Chmese style of singing: to
such lengths was the policy taken.

The trouble was, however, that these compromises between Chinese
and W estern artistic conventions were always very unstable. They were by
their very nature eclectic, and therefore there was no synthesis between
European thesis and Chinese antithesis except at the level of artistic prac-
tice. That is to say, the decision, for instance, whether to use the "sym-
bolic" acting methods of old opera — ^and if so which ones— had always to
be made afresh for every new play and was often the subjea of bitter
disputes. This instability arose not from any merely formal considera-
tion — ^though there are certainly points of genuine incompatibility be-
tween Chinese artistic conventions and the very different European ones —
but from deep-rooted social causes. Not least of these was the antipathy
felt by most intellectuals (including art workers) for forms of art closely
connected with religious observances and feudal superstition. In spite of
rectification study and the facc-thc-m asses orientation implemented after
1943, the gulf between the urban intelligentsia and the masses has re-
mained very real in China up to the present day.

Meanwhile, in the countryside, yangge no doubt continued to be per-
formed by peasants, with or without Party guidance, in the new circum-

Zhang Geng, Yangge yu xin geju, pp. 34-35.

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stances of the late 1940s and early 1950s. With the Party's attention
relaxed and policy changed, what happened to yarigge and to the reforms
introduced by Luyi? One 1953 Held survey from Jiaxian in North Shaanxi
showed that, in by far the majority of troupes, the open umbrella of the
old yangge was still at the front of the procession, and that in only a very
small number of cases had the new form, the hatchet and sickle, replaced
the old. The report indicates that peasants did not mind using the new
political symbols, but were opposed to the elimination of elements the
Party thought were feudal.^ In effect an uneasy truce seems to have been
declared, giving rise to a new form of syncretism in Chinese popular
culture.

The Party's attitude, however, has not been die same in all places or
equally tolerant of all forms of performance. On occasion the Party sup-
pressed forms of art current among the people, as for instance when it first
moved into the area of Hequ xian in Northwest Shanxi and banned the
performance of errentai ^two-person stage**).^^ In general, though, there
seems to have been more tolerance than intolerance in the years before the
Cultural Revolution. After 1966, performance of yangge in the countryside
must have come under considerable pressure, owing to the campaign
against religious practices. Very little was seen of yangge during the Cul-
tural Revolution years (1966-1976), and it was seldom mentioned in the
media. Jiang Qing's dishke of folksong was well known, and yangge was
much too closely associated with the disgraced Yan'an generation to es-
cape the general blight on forms other than Peking opera.

Since the death of Mao and the fall from power of the radical faction
under Jiang Qing, yangge has been revived. During 1977 large-scale cele-
brations were held in the cities to herald what was seen as a rciurii to
correct government and the renewal of the Party's mandate under (Chair-
man i lua Ciuofeng."** Thus even in 1977, after nearly thirty years of revo-
lutionary transformation under the Party's leadership, we can still see
yangge being used in a traditional way, to mark an important transition in
public life and to symbolize the begmning of an era of "Great Peace."

^ (Sun) Jingshen, "Shanbei Jiaxian," p. 83.

Zhongyang yinyue yanjiuyuan Zhongguo yinyue yanjiusuo, ed., Hequ mmfum gequ
[Folksongs from Hequ] (Peking: Yinyue chubanshe, 1956), pp. 205-206. Errenta: w as a ver>'
simple tomi of drama, similar in both structure and function to the yanggeju of the Yan'an
region.

*" See the centerpiece in Wudao 4 (1977) and photographs in Wudao 5 (1977): 2-3,
whidi show whole fleets of boats on dry land, waist-drum (yaogu) dancers, lions, and massed
troupes of yangge dancers waving colored scarves.

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TWO

Shanghai's "Orphan Island''
and the Development
of Modem Drama

Edward Gum

In the summer of 1979, the plays Ye diau [The night inn, 1944] by Shi Tiio
and Ke Ling and YV Shanghai (Shanghai night, 1939] hv Yu Ling were
restdged in Shanghai. 1 he events were part of a gciKial, eountry-wide
revival of pre-1949 works that had been revised in the 1950s and then
banned during the Cultural Revolution. Yet these two works had a par-
ticular significance. They recalled an even earlier period of modern Chi-
nese drama: its unique flowering in Shanghai during the War of Resistance
to Japan (1937—1945). Although the city was under Japanese domination,
the foreign concessions remained for several years free of direa Japanese
authority — Whence their designation as the ** Orphan Island." It was within
these enclaves that, despite the departure of many Chinese intellectuals and
artists to the interior (which was not under Japanese authority), modern
drama in Shanghai reached an unprecedented peak of popularity as a
professional, commercial enterprise. The significance of this wartime
theater boom for the development of modern drama in China is the subject
of this study.

BACKGROUND

The form that modern drama took in China at that rime was know n as
huiJju, or "spoken drama," a term that indicates the form's identification
with Western drama as opposed to traditional (Chinese operatic forms.
During the early years of the Repubhc period, appreciation of this modern
drama lagged behind that granted to other modern. Western-influenced
genres, and the most notable stage productions were those of foreign plays
in Chinese. 1935 saw the beginning of a growing criiical acceptance of
Chinese productions of foreign plays in translation. This important devct-

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DtVLLOPMtNT OF MODERN DRAMA

opmcnt was the reward of years of patient effort to improve staging tech-
niques. In June of that vear a production of Ibsen's A Doll's House [Nala)
starring Lan Ping (Jiang Qing) and Zhao Dan, in November Gogol's In-
spector General {Xun'an) directed by Ouyang Yuqian, and in December
an adaptation of Moli^re's VAvare {Caikuang) starring Wan Jiabao (Cao
Yu) were all given an unusually appreciative reception.

The plays themselves, intellectually serious in theme, had a certain
topicality for Chinese society: Gogol's and Moliere's works could be
taken as expressions of the desire to epater la bourgeoisie, while Ibsen's
play spoke to women's liberation and also to the rapid increase — assisted
by a new marriage law — ^in the divorce rate among China's middle
classes. Yet nothing in these comedies of Moliere and Gogol is so insis-
tent or obtrusive that they cannot be enjoyed for the sheer ludicrousness
of the situations and the characters, given a degree of cosmopolitanism in
the audience. Nor should the remark of Eileen Chang on the popularity
of A Doll's House be discounted:

A glance at the personal columns in Chinese newspapers ("Since you de-
parted, mother refuses to eat or leave her bed. Grandmodier had her heart
attacks. Whole family daily washes face with tears. Return at once.") shows
us that Chinese under thirty are prone to walk out of their homes because of
abstract principles, domestic disputes, failure to pass ocaminations, the in-
comparihiliry of cultural atmosphere, etc. Perhaps no other work has influ-
enced the average educated Chinese of this ccnturv so much as Ibsen's A
Doll's House, and in this, as in everything else learned from the West, the
Chmese are more impressed by the bleak beauty of Nora's gesture than by
the underlying thought.*

Granted that audiences were ready for the presentation of problems
they saw as pertinent to them, the theory of "the bleak gesture" offers
some insight into the popular success of certam plays in the years yet to
come. In 1935 the productions of these plays evidenced both new develop-
ments in the quality of acting and production and the limitation ot these
achievements: productions ran for a few days at most, and modern drama
still remained the preserve of amateur and semiprotessional eiuluisiasts, its
audience conlincd tor the most pan to a relatively ijuiall number of stu-
dents and intellectuals.^

Another significant change was the renewed emphasis in 1936 and 1937
on popularizing the modem drama, especially among those committed to

' Eileen Chang, "On the Scret-ti." Ihr luctitirth Century (Vtohcr 1^4/?}: AM.

' Reviews of these productions include Xi.io Qiari on (.jtkuani; in Da^^cnii; hjo [L'lm-
partial], 9 December 1935, p. 9; Zhang Geng on Xun'an in VVtvu^t' 5.6 (December 1935):
1053f.; and Zhang Geng on Nala in "Muqian juyunde jige dangmian wenti" [Some questions
we face in the dieater movement at present], Guangmmg zazhi 2.12 (May 1937): 1492-
1495.

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EDWARD GUNN

theater as a vehicle to propagandize anti-imperialism and resistance to
Japanese aggression among the widest audience possible. Since the Man-
churian Incident of 1931—1932, the Japanese had by steps penetrated deep
into North China and had tightened their hold both poUtically and eco-
nomically. Chinese dramatists responded, as part of the program for a
"literature of National Defense," with such works as Zousi [Smugghng],
exposing large-scale Japanese smuggling activities in North China; Xia
Yan*s Sai Jmhua, portraying the humiliation of China after the Boxer
Revolt and satirizing by implication the ineffectualness of the Nationalist
government in dealing with the Japanese; and Cui Wei's Fangxia nide
bianzi [Lay down your whip], street theater revealing the misery of the
Chinese under Japanese rule in Northeast China and implying the impend-
ing threat for all Chinese.

In Shanghai, Smuggling was banned by the Shanghai Municipal Council
at the insistence of the Japanese, while the Nationalists cut short the
production of Sai Jinhua? These actions helped make the plays rallying
points for popular frustration and indignation, which kept attention fo-
cused on them. But as agitation propaganda they were part of an orga-
nized political machine which, once subdued by Japanese force of arms,
could ill afford to continue expressing itself so openly. Moreover, these
plays drew attention to theater through a topical issue ot widespread social
concern, rather than relying on a permanently established taste for modern
drama itself to attract an audience. Productions at the time of the Republi-
can Revolution of 1911 and the Manchurian incident of 1931 had aroused
similar interest, hut not enough to sustain a regular patronage once the
issue had passed. Instead, the agitation-propaganda plays of this period
have largely been ignored since, though their cause has never been forgot-
ten. What did emerge from this period of 1936-1937 was a renewed
interest in costume drama (guzhuang xiju) in plays, such as Sai Jinhua,
that recalled the historical past, revised old operas, or revivified old leg-
ends and stories. The costume drama and its relation to traditional culture
woidd become a major concern to writers.

CAO YU AND THE FIRST PROFESSIONAL COMPANY

Another important development in drama also occurred prior to the
war. In certain significant ways it overshadowed the contributions of the

' A discussion of the ban on Smuggling appears in Yao Hsin-nung, "Drama Chronicle,"
T'leti Hsia Monthly 3.1 (August 1936): 45-52. For the problems ot Sat Jmhua, one contem-
porary source is A Jizhe (pseud.), "Zhongxuanbuzhang he Xiong Foxishi tan jinyan Sai
Jmhua zhi bianshuo yiii** [The chief of the Central Propaganda Bumitt and X3c«g Foxi
discuss the justification for banning the performance of Saijinfma], Guangmtttg zathi 2.12
(May 1937): 1546-1550.

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DhVtLOPMtNT Oh MODERN DRAMA

largely amateur movements in foreign drama and national defense litera-
ture. This development was the simultaneous and ultimately related rise of
the playwright Cao Yu (Wan Jiabao) and the Zhongguo liixing jutuan (the
Chinese Traveling Dramatic Company, or CTDC). Tang Huaiqiu, a sea-
soned performer in amateur and semiprofessional modern drama compa-
nies, organized the CTDC in November 1933. He was determined to put
spoken drama performances on a professional footing and to support the
livelihood of his company solely through producing modem drama. From
what little we know of CTDC*s repertoire during the early years, it was
not impressive. Short plays like Xiong Foxi*s Zfii/e [The drunkard] and
ordinary Western melodramas such as A. Walters* The Easiest Way (under
the Chinese title Met Luoxiang) appear to have been unpolitidzed enter-
tainment and edification addressed to students and the middle class. Given
that its repertoire was unexceptional, CTDC*s survival seems due mainly
to the company's sheer acting skill and technique, which impressed audi-
ences in cities outside Shanghai with productions markedly superior to
diose of the perennially failing local amateur groups.

It was also in late 1^^ that Cao Yu finished the magnum opus of his
undergraduate days at Qinghua University, Leiyu [Thunderstorm]; it was
published in Wenxuc jikan [Literary quarterly] in July 1934. Cao Yu was
an unknown figure, hardly a part of the mainstream of the drama move-
ment, and later even wrote, "At the time of writing Thunder storm, I did
not imagine that anyone would stage it.""* Indeed, a little-puhlicix.ed at-
tempt by students in Peking to stage the play was banned by local authori-
ties on the grounds that it portrayed incest. The hrst production, ironi-
cally, was by overseas students in Tokyo in April 1935.' But even there it
was reported that the fourth act of the play was censored owing to the
incest theme.'' Among high-brow critics the only spokesman for the play
was Li jianwu, himself a well-known playwright, who wondered why the
Him industry, highly criticized for its lack of decent scripts, did not seize
upon this work.

^ Cao Yu, **Wo zenma xic Leiyu"" (How I wrote Thunderstorm]^ Dagong bao, 19 January
1936, p. 9. A translation of the preface appears in Yao Hsin-nung (trans.), ''Thunder and
Lightning,** Tien Hsia Monthiy 3.3 (October 1936): 279. Yao Hsin-nung is better known by

his pen name, Yao Ke.

^ See Liang Menghui, "C.hugoku no hanageki to Nihon to no kankci" ( Ihc relationship
between Chinese huaju and Japan], Shingeki [New drama] 155 (December 1962): 46-49. For
a contemporary account of the performance, see Kageyama Saburo in the Tdk(^ daigaku
shimbun (Imperial University news), no. 576 (May-June 1935).

*" According to Wu Litu, "Yinianlai Zhongguo wenxuejic" \The Chinese literan,' world
during the past yearj, in Zhongguo wenyt ntanjian: 193S (The yearbook ot Chmesc Htera-
ture: 1935] (Shanghai: Beixin shuju, 1936), pp. 93-94.

* See Liu Xiwei (pseud, of U Jianwu), Juhua ft [Ruminations] (Shan^ai: Wenhua sheng-
huo chubanshe, 1936), pp. 115-125.

EDWARD UUNN

Word ot the play spread slowly, and finally, in late December 1935,
students at hudan University (under the direction of Ouyang Yuqian)
staged ihunderstorm for three days. Audiences were impressed, especially
by the young actress Fengzi who threw herself weeping into her role.** But
they were not impressed enough that the run had to be extended. In early
1936 the script appeared in book form, still without a major production.
This it received only after the Chinese TraveUng Dramatic Company re-
turned to Shanghai in April 1936, discovered the play, and again offered it
to Shanghai — ^this time, to everyone's surprise, for the unprecedented run
of nineteen days.^ As one critic has noted of the CTDC:

Their performances at the (Carlton Theater were so immensely superior to
those of the amateur groups that the audience was thrilled. Again, Ihunder-
storm was the greatest favorite. The Shanghai theater-goers had never seen a
play so well written or a performance so well done. Previously, the spoken
drama audiences were coniSned to students and a small number of intellecm-
als, but now the house was packed with people who had never seen a
modern play before. It was a tremendous success, both for the play and for
the players. '°

Even newspapers not noted for their sympathetic attention to the drama
movement were moved to recognize the success of CTDC and Thunder-
storm — ^at the bottom of the movie gossip columns.

The fact that the middle classes had joined students and intellectuals in
an enthusiastic reception of a spoken drama was of crucial importance to
those interested in building a permanent, publicly supported theater move-
ment. There was in the content of Cao Yu's Thunderstorm much that must
have appealed to its audience: a focus on the family, particularly on the
older and younger generations in conflict and on tension between husband
and wite; love and death, particularly as illicit sex and self-destructive acts,
which might be considered "bleak gestures"; and revenge. Yet these ele-
ments were not new to the stage, and the cause for their successful combi-
nation lay in Cao Yu's tireless concern with technique, with a degree (if
manipulation of passions theretofore unwitnessed in a modern (Chinese
playwright, and with an embodiment of dramatic theory more often found
before in handbooks and monographs than in actual playscripts. Linked
with this breakthrough was the timely development of the CTDC, which,
relative to other groups, deserved the title of "professional" for its mastery
of staging technique. Cao Yu admired its work and confided to its mem-
bers his criticisms of the failings of other companies that performed his

' According to Zhao Jingshen, Wentan yiju I Recollections of the literary scene] (Shanghai:
Bdxin shuju, 1948), pp. 60-61.

* Yao Hsin-nung, "Drama Chronicle, " Tien Hsia Monthly 3.1 (August 1936): 49.
Yao Hsin-nung, letter to the author dated 16 July 1975.

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DEVELOPMENT OF MODERN DRAMA

plays." Entrusted with Thunderstorm, and then with Cao Yu's second
work, Richu fSunrisc], the CTDC] set out again in 1936 on a successful
tour of Chinese cities. 1 hey were still on tour when the war broke out in
July 1937."

Cao Yu and the CTDC aroused a mixed response among the literary
left heading the theatrical movement for national defense literatiue. Cao
Yu had no connections with the Communist Party, and his plays Thunder-
storm and Sunrise did not tackle the themes of anti-imperialism and resis-
tance to Japan considered appropriate for the times. Cao was to make up
for such shortcomings in the years to come. But at the time his work
seemed to be in competition with Party works, and Party critics such as
Zhang Ceng criticized Cao for attention to technique (jiqiao) over life
{shenghuo)*^^ These two terms were frequently and flexibly used by critics
of the period. "Technique" sometimes referred to the nonrealistic style of
traditional opera, sometimes to the unrealistic style of Hollywood acting
(panicularly unrealistic when transplanted to Chinese society); **life** was
associated with contemporary realism. This view was not universally
shared. Even when offered as a supreme compliment, it was not accepted
by Li Jianwu for one of his works:

Mr. Ba Ren [VC'ang Renshu] rendered the greatest assistance in the produc-
tion of this modest work. He stated: '*This is not a play, but life: no more,
no less, it is human life. Is not life the highest level of art?" Mr. Ba Ren tends
to get intoxicated and talk in his sleep.

Zhang Ceng, in criticizing Cao Yu, argued that his technique was realis-
tic but his characters were implausible. This display of technique at the
expense of real life Zhang contrasted with a play by and for workers he
had seen, in which **immature" technique and dialogue still evoked a
genuine response from the workers and evinced true life. Given that Cao
Yu*s characters are not altogether plausible, it might seem that Zhang was
arguing that, while the middle class might be moved by implausible char-
acters, a working-class audience could be moved only by plausible char-
acters. However, the heart of Zhang's argument was not this shaky propo-
sition, but rather his vision of Cao Yu's work as irrelevant to a theater by

" Sec Zhao Huishen, "Zai Zhongguo liixing jiituan" (In the Chinese Traveling Dramatic
Company \, J uchang yishu [1 heater arts] 6 (20 April 1^39): 20-25.

CTDC eventually setded in Hong Kong, and then returned to Shanghai in 1940 or
1941. Part of their audience in Hong Kong was composed of refugees who had fled Shanghai
following the battle in 1937; they returned to Shanghai as the cit>' was restored to normalcy.

" See Zhang Geng, "Yijiusanliuniandc xiju" [Drama in 1936], in Zhotif^guo wenyiman-
jian: 1936 [The yearbook ot Chinese literature: 1936] (Shanghai: Beixm shuju, 1937), pp.
95-96.

'** Li Jianwu, Zhe buguo shi chuntian (This is only spring] (Shanghai: Wenhua shenghuo
chubanshe, 1940), p. vt.

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EDWARD GUNN

and tor workers and peasants, which was a focus of concern among many
Party cuhural workers.

Similarly, the Party was not altogether pleased with the CTDC. The
company was slow to respond to the call for plays dealing with anti-impe-
rialism, and only grudging approval was given when the company pro-
duced Zuguo (a translation of Sardou's Patrie, done in foreign dress).
Moreover, as commercial theater, CTDC supposedly catered to the bour-
geoisie, charging admission rates that only they could afford, to the neglect
of the mass of the population.*^ And yet this vision of two different
theaters with divergent ends does not adequately describe the situation or
the attitude of those involved. For the contributions of CTDC were to the
means of the theater in general as well as to a particular end. The endur-
ance of the company and the growing recognition accorded it offered a
promise of careers in modern drama, a chance, however challenging, that a
performer might be able to devote his or her life to the stage. Further, the
CTDC had provided an education in theatrical technique, an area that had
lacked sufficient appreciation. And through this, (TDC: had aroused
broader enthusiasm for spoken drama among the public. All this encour-
aged writers to take up playwriting with greater hopes for the successful
realization of better and more demanding works. As the war approached,
more and more amateur and semiprofessional troupes followed the lead of
CTDC and attempted to go onto a professional basis.

EXPERIMENTATION DURING THE JAPANESE OCCUPATION

The Battle for Shanghai that opened on August 13, 1937, was also a
form of theater. The Chinese who planned the strike on the Japanese
garrison there hoped to make the largest foreign community in China —
and through them, the rest of the world — spectators to Japanese aggres-
sion. But no influence emanated (torn the International Settlement or the
French Concession to their home governments in the West, which were
preparing for war in Europe. While Greater Shanghai was laid waste, the
Japanese increased their influence in the foreign concessions, and their
armies pushed on at great cost to savage the city of Nanking, forcing the
Chinese armies into the great interior of China. In December 1937 the
foreign enclaves in Shanghai were an "orphan island," "neutral** outposts
of Western commerce surrounded by the Japanese "New Order."

In Shanghai, the period from late 1937 through the spring of 1939 saw
a setback in the ability of modern drama to attract audiences and the
collapse of the trend toward professional companies. The city lost part of

^ Zhan^ Ceng, "Yiliusanliunumde xiju," p. 91.

See Zhang Yangxin, "Changshade juyun** [Tlie drama movemenc in Changsha),
Guangming zazhi 2.12 (May 1937): 1543.

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DtVtLOPMtN 1 Oh MOUtRN DRAMA

its audience and many of its writers and artists to Hong Kong and the
interior, due to the battle and the retreat of Chinese forces. The theater
artists and writers who remained sought the patronage of the French, who
temporarily maintained the greatest degree of autonomy but who insisted
that the Chinese should use their stage facilities for the promotion of
French drama. By staging French plays in translation together with current
patriotic Chinese plays (with the titles of the well-known ones altered to
avoid confrontation with censors), semiprofessional theater was gradually
restored, and the Shanghai juyi she (Shanghai Theater Arts Society, or
STAS) was formed.

In the sununer of 1939 STAS attempted to stage its first extended run of
a production, Ye Shanghai [Shanghai night], by the local playwright Yu
Ling. But the production fell far short of its scheduled engagement. Shang-
hai Night is in fact one of the best plays by Yu Ling, a veteran of Shanghai
agit-prop theater. It is interesting for its literal portrayal of the problems of
refugees in the International Settlement and the moral dilemmas of Ufe
under enemy occupation. But it is also, in conventional terms, too loose
and melodramatic a concoction of crises surrounding too many uninterest-
ing characters. Yet the causes for its failure to achieve popularity outside
the Party probably lay elsewhere. Shanghai Nii^ht was seen by its apolo-
gists as a demanding play about the reality of ordinary life in Shanghai, in
contrast to the theater of technique that offered skillful manipulations and
sensuous spectacle." in sum, Shaui^hai Night embodied tlie virtue of truth,
while audiences were accused of preterrmg artiHcialitv.

Essentially, the definition of the woes of hiiajH theater had shifted.
Following the success of CTDC' in 1936, and prior to the failure of Shang-
hai Night, there had been common agreement that the main need was to
upgrade the equality of actmg and production in huaju. No less a figure
than Xia Yan, the author of Sai Jinhna, wrote that, so long as acting
technique was not improved, there would be a dearth of demanding plays
and the theater movement would not get beyond skits like Lay Down
Your Whip.^^ But the left-leaning theater circle of Shanghai would find
fault with neither Yu Ling's play nor its staging.'^ Given the box-office
failure, then, the discussion shifted to the appeal of spectacle.

Nowhere was spectacle more evident on the stage than in the various

See Shen Yt, "Wo zenyang kan Ye Shanghai" [How I view Shanghai Night], Juchang
yishu 1.10 (August 1939): 4-5.

"* See Xia Yan, "I.un cishi cidide juyun** [On die drama movement here and now],
juchang yishu 1 . ^ ( M a y 19^9): 1 - 2 .

" Indeed, It was listed as one of the ten most representative plays ol the war period by
Hong Shen in Kangthan shhtianlai ZJhongguo huaju yundong yu jiaoyu [The Chinese drama
movement and education over the past ten years during the War of Resistance] (n.p., n.d.)» p.
134.

tDWARD GUNN

traditional torms of opera, domtnated at the time by Peking opera. In the
view of a noted Shanghai critic and historian of Chinese theater, Zhou
Yibai, Peking opera had become primarily a theater of music and move-
ment, a vehicle for singers and acrobats, and no longer fulfilled its func-
tion of storjrtelling or of presenting characters and themes relevant to the
present.^^ For instance, in the standard traditional theme of zhong fun at
guo (loyalty to one's ruler and love for one's country) only the latter half,
patriotism, was relevant, whereas loyalty to any particular ruler was
outdated.

Zhou's comments could in faa have served as a fitting introduction to
the second play billed for an extended run by STAS in the autumn of
1939, Mingmo yihen or Bixue hua [Sorrow for the fall of the Ming, or
Jade blood flower] by A Ying (Qian Xingcun). Part of a cycle of plays by
A Ying on the fall of the Ming dynasty due to foreign (Manchu) invasion,
this play succeeded in at least putting STAS financially in the black. While
it reads as a very loose-knit set of scenes designed only to offer the rhetoric
and gestures of patriotic defiance toward invaders and contempt toward
collaborators, onstage Sorrow for the Fall of the Ming included singing
and dancing and all the costumes, properties, and even the chanted dia-
logue {daohai"] of traditional operatic spectacle. The characters, too, were
casiK- rccogni/ahic stereotypes (as in traditional opera), led by a ct)iirtcsan
turncd-woman-warrior, another favorite opera type. Yet, as a commoner,
she is made to represent patriotism apart from and in defiance of the
established .\ling aristocracy and civil service, who consort v\ ith the enemy
and abandon the common people's struggle to save their country. Hence a
modern interpretation of an old tale was clelivered, and one that implied
criticism of the Nationalists, it is worth noting, too, that the play offers
scenes of domestic strife between older and younger generations and con-
cludes with the heroine's gesture of martyrdom. The play thus capitalized
on the techniques of traditional opera and restored its storytelling function
in terms at least believed to be popular with audiences.

It would be wrong, in discussing this breakthrough, to overrate the
automatic success of any part of its formula. Several other patriotic cos-
tume dramas by other local writers that followed were not as successful
with audiences. Moreover, fellow playwrights and critics devoted to real-
ism were critical of A Ying's work, from its stereotyped characters to its
use of the artificial daobai in dialogue. Xia Van, after his prewar costume
dramas, had turned to contemporary realism in the belief that, since his-
tory is progressive, recreation of the past could not serve to illuminate the
truth of the present. On this ground he dismissed A Ying's costume

Zhou Yihai, "Pihuangxi weishenma yao gailiang" [Why revise Peking opera?], /Mcfcon;;
yishu 1.8 (June 4-5.

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DtVtLOPMENT OF MODERN DRAMA

dramas."' There was, then, a reluctance on the part of many in modern
drama to don ancestral garb and compromise with traditional opera.

In the following year, 1940, Shanghai theater's most successful produc-
tion was an adaptation by Wu Tian of Ba Jin's Jia [FamilyJ. Credit for its
popularity must go primarily to the artists who staged it with as much
color and imiovation as the script permitted, and to Ba Jin as the most
popular portrayer of the generation gap and the bleak gesture. The popu-
larity of this production of Family, which did not deal even indirectly with
the war, far outstripped that of Sorrow for the Fall of the Ming; it ran for
some four months. This success reawakened the arguments that the role of
theater was to support the resistance as well as the artists. Family might be
taken as another turning point in theater, but not one that signaled any
true failure of faith in or sympathy for the resistance. The play, while not
focusing on the issue of national autonomy, does describe other social
goals for which China was fighting.

The second great popular success, in the summer of 1 94 1 a few months
prior to the Japanese military occupation of the International Settlement,
was Yao Ke's Qing gong yuan [Malice in the Qing courtj (translated by
Jeremy Ingalls under the title The Malice of Empire). This play, too, pre-
sented foreign invasion by the Western-Japanese expedition in retaliation
for the Boxer Uprising, but the focus of the play was a study of tyranny
centered on the Manchu court and on the patterns of mutual betrayal and
the breakdown of trust experienced by those who lived in it. I he Malice of
E}>ipire made much use of costumes and spectacle, while its structure
followed from that of traditional opera. But it was far more conservative
in its borrowing from opera and was realistic in style. In addition to
providing spectacle, the play focused on the familylike feud between the
Empress Cixi and her chosen heir, the young Guangxu emperor. Cixi's
hatred is directed principally at the emperor's favorite consort, the Pearl
Concubine, who drowns herself at the conclusion of the play.

DRAMA IN THE UNOCCUPIED INTERIOR

What distinguished the modern drama of occupied Shanghai from that
in the Chinese-held interior (exclusive of the radical changes that emerged
in Yan'an) is not entirely clear, in part due to the lack of a thorough-going
critical history of wartime drama in the interior. Certainly up to 1942 the
two areas had more in conunon than in contrast. For example, Yao Ke
was himself engaged in a production of the patriotic play Tuibian [Meta-
morphosis] by Cao Yu (who was in the interior) when the Japanese took

^* Liu Xtwei, JtAua erji [Runiinatioiis II] (Shanghai: Wenhua shenghuo chubanshe, 1947),
p. 82.

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the International Settlement on December 8, 1941. Certainly such topical,
patriotic plays dealing directly with the war disappeared from Shanghai
stages by force of censorship. Yet in the interior, while such plays contin-
ued to appear (from such writers as Song Zhidi and Lao She), there was a
decline in their numbers by force of popular taste. More dramas took up
life in the interior as opposed to life at die battlefront. A flock of plays on
the Taiping Rebellion, as well as other costume dramas by Guo Moruo,
criticized the Nationalists for hardening their policy toward the Commu-
nist Party. These plays, however, made litde impression on Shanghai
theater, although they were discussed in the local magazines. In the inte-
rior there were delicious fantasies about the life to come at war's end,
vapid comedies, and adaptations of foreign plays more or less concerned
with patriotic themes. The Xin Zhongguo jushe (New China Dramatic
Company), a professional Communist group touring the interior, relied
mainly on Gogol's Inspector General {Qincha dachen)^ Ostrowski's The
Storm {Da leiyu), and Cao Yu's Sunrise}^ Even Xia Van turned away from
patriotic propaganda to dwell more on quotidian individual experience not
limited to wartime existence. Perhaps what Shanghai missed from what the
interior had to offer was satire as strong and outrageous as that of Chen
Baichcn. Chen did not origuiate social satire on the modern stage, but he
did bring it to the point of liberation from formal realism, to public
controversy, and rinally to Shanghai after the victory over Japan.

Those who worked at theater in the interior have complamed a good
deal about the conditions there. Some of these conditions were more self-
unposed than they were necessary, or so it would seem. Many writers
justified their works entirely on the grounds that they contributed to na-
tional mobilization and education and adhered to a style of such overt
didacridsm that entertainment or delight became embarrassingly suspect
concepts. Attitudes could become so contradictory that a play by Tian
Han that pleased a certain Nationalist official was reportedly later hushed
up and ignored by its author and a school of Party critics.^ Even harder
for many writers to accept was the fact that few artists working in theater
had the stamina to remain in rural areas or near the front lines, but
flooded back to the cities. There the goal of reaching the masses fell behind
that of acceptance by the educated and the elite audiences.'^'* In theory,

^ See Wang Fan, **Xin Zhongguo jushede qinian jingli" [The seven-year experience of the
New China Dramatic Company], in Tian Han et al., eds. Zhonggnto huofu ytmdong wtishi'
titan shilian ji [Historical materials on fifty years of the Chinese drama movement] (Peking:
Zhongguo xim ^.hubanslu-, h'sS:, pp. 277-304.

Cao Juren, Wcntuu wushiman (xujt) [tiky years ot the literary scene (coniinuedJJ
(Hong Kong: Xin vi^enhua chubanahe, 1973)* p. 148.

The phenomenon was generally noted. See in particular Hong Shen's chapter "Kang-
zhan xijude ziwo pipan'' [Seif-criddsm on drama during the War of Resisunce], in Kangz/um
shinianlai, pp. 124—141.

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DtVtLOPMEN 1 OF MODhRN DRAMA

drama originated historically among the common people but was monopo-
lized by the elite to subdue the people."' But for the most part spoken
drama was tor the cities and the educated.

THE ECLIPSE OF THE FILM INDUSTRY IN SHANGHAI

One critical problem with which the modem dramatic artists in the
interior were saddled from the start of die war was the scarcity of theaters
and the competition with films and opera companies for what theaters
there were.^* By contrast, Shanghai hardly lacked theaters: the Carlton, the
Lyceum, the Lafayette Garden, the Paris, the Crown, and other foreign-
built theaters were designed for stage productions, and once the film in-
dustry in Shanghai was taken over by the Japanese and foreign films were
embargoed, managers of several cinema houses had them converted to
accommodate spoken drama productions.

Certainly the cinema had long dominated spoken drama in the public
eye. In general this dominance probably had less to do with artistic reasons
than with the cheapness and convenience of seeing films and the greater
pubUcity and wider distribution that film companies could arrange. Rather
than compete with film companies, many artists and writers of stage pro-
ductions readily sought employment with them. Films also went through
periodic crazes for costume dramas and endured reams of criticism in
newsprint. Yet in 1940 and 1941, when independent Shanghai studios
were still producing films in quantity, they were outsold by stage produc-
tions of Family and Ihe Malice of Empire. A large part of the credit for
this phenomenon must go to sheer improvements in the dramatic and
staging techniques of writers and artists. It is true that the Japanese
rendered a service to the Chinese modern drama movement by taking over
the Him mdustry and banning American films, thus increasing the number
of artists and theaters devoted to stage productions. But this action added
to, rather than created, a movement that had already built up momentum.
At Its height, drama companies occupied thirteen theaters.

JAPANESE CONTROL OF THE ARTS

By turning their attention largely to films as the medium of mass enter-
tainment and propaganda, the Japanese left the Shanghai theater establish-

^ Tian Qin, ZJhongguo xiju yundong [The Chinese drama movement] (Chui^dng:
Shangvi'u yinshuguan, 1944, reprint ed., Shanghai, 1946), pp. 89-90.
^ Ibid., p. 101.

^ Acccwding to Gu Zhongyi, Shinianlaide Shan^ai huaju yundong, 1937-194S [The
drama movement in Shanghai over die past ten years, 1937-1945] (originally published in
Hoi^ Shcn, Kangzhan shinianlai [n.p., n.d.]; reprint ed., Hong Kcmg, 1976), p. 22.

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EDWARD GUNN

ment to the control of censors, to proscriptive rather than prescriptive
measures. The tenuous margin of independence this allowed the theater
and its audience was real and substantial enough to distinguish the stage
from the motion picture industry. Authorities did intrude upon this ar-
rangement on occasion. Writers and artists were lectured and encouraged
to eulogize the new regime, and police arbitrarily visited intellectuals to
question them on their political views. Finally, in 1943, the theater estab-
lishment was ordered to provide a performance at a celebration for the
return of the Shanghai foreign concessions to Chinese administration
(under the Wang Jingwei regime). After much threatening and procrasti-
nation, it agreed to revive an adaptation of Ba Jin's Family.^

At the other end of the spectrum of goverment control was one of the
major hits of the war period, Wen Tianxtang, a popular resistance drama
in costume written early in the war by Wu Zuguang and originally titled
Zherjgqi ge (Song of righteousness]. With the title discreetly changed to the
name of the hero of the play (who was martyred while resisting the Mon-
gol invasion of China) and the author's name left unpublicized (he was in
the interior), censors allowed the play to run for several months in 1943. It
did not, after all, directly insult the Japanese or the Nanking regime, and
its performance happened to follow the decisive defeat of the Nazi German
armies at the Battle of Stalingrad in February 1943 — a clear signal to any
who did not already believe it that the Axis powers were crumbling. Japan
was concerned with niamtammg a neutrality pact with the Soviet Union,
and m Shanghai the Soviet cultural presence was never really excluded but
was well propagandized in such locally published, Soviet-sponsored peri-
odicals as Liu yi [Six arts] and Shidai [The epoch]. Politically as well as
artistically, the Shanghai cultural world developed in ways no one could
have predicted.

MODERN DRAMA*S RAPPROCHEMENT WITH OPERA

In theatrical terms the real challenge faced by modern drama in Shang-
hai seems to have been the traditional opera. This is by no means to
belittle the real influence of censorship, self-imposed restraints, or competi-
tion with film so hastily reviewed above. But, in terms of its relationship to
an audience that would support it, the theater of modern drama had most
of all to contend with the popularity of traditional opera. The most strik-
ing response to this situation was also the most popular play of the war
period. It was reviewed by Eileen Chang in May 1943, toward the end of
its initial and unprecedented five-month run:

" Ibid., pp. 27-28.

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Never betore has the hardened city ot Shanghai been moved so much by a
play as by Autumn Quince (Qiu Haitang), a sentimental melodrama which
has been running at the Carlton Theater since December 1942. . . . The
success of the play has given rise to a host of imitators. At one time there
were no less than six plays showing simultaneousK in Shanghai which dealt
with the private lives of Peking Opera stars and backstage intrigues. . . . The
color and atmosphere of Peking Opera strongly prevails in these plays, with
here and there a brief intcrkide of actual Peking Opera. It astounds us to
reflect that, although the new theater of Chma has taken a Hrtnly antagonis-
tic stand agauist Peking Opera from its very conception the first real triumph
of the new theater is a compromise — a humiliating feict.^

Chang's remarks form part of a discussion on the endurance of Peking
opera and other forms of traditional opera. One need n(H agree with all of
her observations t() join her in recognizing the ccntrality of the opera
forms to the pertorming arts in China and the breadth and depth of this
phenomenon,^®

Here we may consider opera from three perspectives: as a form, as a
social ritual, and as a psychological entity. It was widely recognized that as
an art form, opera was replete with spectacle, with music, and with highly
developed movement. This transparent devotion to technique was too often
set in supposed contrast to the spoken drama, where the need for highly
developed technique, albeit of a different kind, was frequently ignored or
regarded as a bogy until the mid-1930s. Opera was also a mandatory social
ritual in many public lesttvals and private entertainments, helping to define
them and to lend social cohesiveness to leisure activities. As a professional
activity, it attracted talented people who knew that it offered a potential
livelihood and all the rewards of popular entertainment. By contrast, mod-
em dramatists had set their genre up as predominandy a vehicle of radical
social vision, deliberately at odds with established ritual and custom; they
were often disdainful of the idea of **selling entertainment" as a means to
make a living. Finally, the opera was psychologically an ideal reference
point: as part of the ''cultural identity'* of the audience, as a response to the
audience's preference to see itself in relation to the past. Be it an idealized

^' "Still Alive," I'he I'tventieth Century 4.6 (June 1943): 432. A Chinese version of this
essay appears as "Yangren kan jingxi ji qita," in Zhang Ailing, Uuyan [Gossip] (reprinted.,
Taibei: Huangguan zazhishe, 1969), pp. 100-109.

^ A few dramatists decided before the war diat traditional opera should be die central
reference point for the modem drama. The most notable was Ouyang Yuqian, one of whose
experiments il.uini: Hnngyu) was staged without much success in Shanghai in 1937, prior to
his departure lor the interior. Ouyang sought a combination of htuijn, traditional opera, and
Russian opera (such as he had seen m the Soviet Union), including the use of symphonic
ordiestration that would become a mark of *'model revolutionary opera" in Qiina in the
1960s. See "Houtai renyu" [Backstage talk], Wenxue chuangg»o [Uterary creation] (Guilin)
1.4 (15 January 1943): 42-47.

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EDWARD GUNN

past, an idealized moment from the past, or simply an ideal moment in the
past, idealization and the culture of the past seem to be, or to have been,
intimately linked. I he title role of Qiu Haitang is that of a female imperso-
nator, an ideal cultural figure in Peking opera.

The presentation of such an ideal cultural figure was no doubt aided in
its success by the timing of its appearance before a war-weary audience,
and the burden of Qiu Haitang as a character whose true wordi as a man
is never recognized was no doubt a temporary relief from patriotic themes.
Qiu Haitang also triumphed over its imitators because, it would seem, of
the superior skill and technique of its writers and performers. The play-
script as performed was the product of three prominent and versatile
writer-artists (Fei Mu, Huang Zuolin, and Gu ^ongyi), who had reluc-
tantiy accepted the task of adapting the original work by Qin Shouou at
the urging of their theater manager. The demanding role of Qiu Haitang
himself — ^which required ability as an operatic female impersonator, an
acrobat, and a realistic actor — was a vehicle for the actor-director Shi Hui
to emerge as a principal artist of his time. All the writers and artists
involved thought they had their esthetic and social vision set higher than
Qiu Haitang, and fortunately writers in Shanghai made other contribu-
tions to the development of modern drama. Yet what made many of their
various experiments possible was the commercial success of plays like Qiu
Haitang.

WESTERN INFLUENCES

If Shanghai offered the maturing of theatrical technique, then some
mention should be made of the appearance of the well-made play as a
Standard feature of commercial tiieater. While nothing might be con-
sidered more foreign to China than the plays of the nineteenth-century
French masters of well-made drama. Scribe and Sardou, one of the best-
known playwrights in Shanghai, Li Jianwu, adapted several of their works
to the modem warlord era of China. While Li was criticized by fellow
playwrights for turning his back on the reality of contemporary life, his
plays, with all their undeniable artificiality, were not box-office failures.
Zhou Yibai, writing to supply the CTDC with original plays, also made
heavy use of the formulas of well-made plays for his dramas, and while he
wanted his stories of young women ^ling prey to the seamier side of the
entertainment world to be seen as serious social commentary, it is his
ability to handle plot that is most noteworthy. Nevertheless, despite the
moderate success of their well-made plays, both Li Jianwu and Zhou Yibai
turned away from them toward the end of the war. While Zhou took up
costume dramas of palace intrigues, I.i Jianwu wrote one of his most
accomplished original works, Qingchun [YouthJ, a comedy of love and

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courtship set in rural China on the eve of the Repubhcan Rcvohition. Li
was still no closer to the contemporary realiiies of Shanghai, but this
nostalgic piece was evidence of a quickened sense of the potential of Chi-
nese folk material as a source for modern drama. By the conclusion of the
war Li had gone so far as to write a costume drama himself: Ashina, set in
the Tang dynasty.

Next to costume drama the largest trend was to adaptations of Western
works, from Gcme tuith the Wind to Shaw's Pygmalion. There were some
that received less recognition than they should have, such as Huang Zuo-
lin's Liangshang junzi (from Molnar's Doctor Ifr), and others that suc-
ceeded more than one might have expected, such as Huang's Huangdao
yingxiong (from Barrie's Admirable Crichton) and Gu Zhongyi's simpli-
fied and sinified King Lear, tided San qianjin [Three daughters]. Perhaps it
was the focus on domestic conflict that helped these plays impress dieir
audience. Yet an important historical point about all such works is that
they were adaptations, not translations; the latter form had virtually disap-
peared. Translations had never really captured more than a very limited
audience. When one turns to the major adaptations produced during the
war — Da maxituan [The big circus] by Shi Tuo ffrom Andreyev's He Who
Gets Slapped) and Ye dian [The night inn] by Shi Tuo and Ke Ling (from
Gorky's The Lower Depths) — one is struck by their degree of both sinifi-
cation and intellectual simplification compared with their sources. Cer-
tainly this treatment was a response to lessons learned in the past, when
productions of plays in translation had bored and confused audiences with
their foreign names and ditticuli lines. ^'

Yet, w'hatevcr the limitations of The Night Inn, it was regarded as a
breakthrough for commercial theater since it focused attention on the
lower classes. An expose of the misery of the poor, it stood on its own as
professional, commercial theater among the costume dramas and well-
made plays. Despite attempts in the 1920s and 1930s to stage proletarian
drama, the literary left had had better luck with women as figures of
oppression — hence the Noras and the sword-wielding heroines of tradi-
tion. The success of The Night Inn was a moment of proud achievement
that fulfilled the vision of life and technique shared by so many artists.^^

COMEDY IN MODERN DRAMA

Published in 1944 in a Shanghai magazine but not performed until
1945, The Night Inn is really very similar in structure and theme to Shi

Wang Ymg, ''Jici yanbuchude xi" [Several unstageable playsj, Guangmittg zazhi 2.12
(May 1937): 1541-1542.

Wang Ying notes the ^lure to stage a translation of The Lower Depths in the 1930s
(ibid).

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tDWARD GUNN

Tuo's other adaptation. The Rig Circus, which had been staged with con-
siderable success in 1942 and 1943, Yet a large part of the allure of The
Big Circus (unlike that of The Night Inn) lay in the spectacle and ebullient
comedy brought to it by its director, Huang Zuolin. Comedy was at least
as much a part of wartime Shanghai theater as the strong satire of Chen
Baichen was a part of the theater of the interior. Well adapted and staged,
comedies based on foreign plays often sustained companies when more
sober offerings failed, as witnessed by the attraction of Tian jieer (from
Paul Gavault*s La Petite Chocolatiere), which brought fame to the noted
film actress Huang Zongying.

The development of comedy in Shanghai was an unexpected gain for
modern Chinese drama. It not only lured adaptors and weaned Li Jianwu
away from French melodrama to an original work as good as Youth, but
also provided the arena for an increasingly sophisticated drama, notably
by the writer Yang Jiang. A smile of irony shrouds the heart of her come-
dies, which took the material of social expose and reworked it into com-
ments on human nature and sallies at literary stereotypes. The innocent
orphan girl of Chenxin ruyi [As you desire], instead of being victimized, is
united with her admirer and sent to university by the very forces than
should have ruined her. The pinv Nongzhcu chengjia [Swindle] opens with
a classic argument between father and daughter over tree love and con-
cludes with a genuinely hilarious scene of forced marriage — offered hardly
as an argument against free love but as an exercise in how people form
assunipiit)ns and act on them. Audiences did not need to follow an intel-
lectual line of development in her comedies in order to enjoy them.

Yet, when Yang turned to tragedy at the end of the war, her concern
with irony and the centrality of psychological insight in her one achieve-
ment, Fengxu [Windswept blossoms], proved too demanding for the audi-
ence. Her central character was a sarcastic, assertive young woman, driven
by a craving for freedom from the society she holds in contempt and
unable to win it either with or without her egoistical husband or die
self-ef^dng lawyer who has freed him from a prison sentence unjustly
imposed for his attempts at agrarian reform. This was not the sort of
drama Shanghai would support. But that this play was ever written is
evidence of how far the Shanghai theater movement had gone and how far
some would try to take it.

THE LEGACY OF SHANGHAI'S DRAMA xMOVEMENT

Within a year after the victory over Japan, the drama movement in
Shanghai was demonstrably in decline. Some theaters returned to showing
the long-banned American films, while others were confiscated by the
Nationalists over questions of ownership. The Chinese film industry was

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also experiencing a strong revival and absorbed many of those who had
been active on the stage during the war. In fact, a number of wartime plays
were turned uuo films. In theater itself a resurgence of regional operas and
the rise of politicized yangge performances began to capture the attention
of many on the left.

Yet during the war, modem drama in Shanghai had contributed in its
own way to the sinification of theater. That Western drama was the source
for the modern Chinese drama should not conceal the fact that very few
foreign plays were presented in translation, as in the 1930s; most were
adapted and sinified. This step back from cosmopolitanism was even more
strikingly evident in the dominant role played by the costume drama and
by the variety of hybrid forms explored by writers to lend to spoken
drama some of the appeal of opera. These were signs of the times, as well
as distant precursors of later theatrical developments in China. There were
other, more apparent and lasting contributions. In particular, advances
were made in directing, acting, and staging technique, and the quality of
the whole was generally raised by unified and imaginative productions.
Many of those who built their reputations in wartime Shanghai continued
fruitful careers in China before and after the Cultural Revolution period.
Finally, the period left behind it dramatic works that more than one gen-
eration of audiences and varying tastes could find appealing, from Li
Jianwu's Youth to Yang Jiang's comedy and tragedy, from Yao Ke's cos-
tume drama to Shi Tuo's and Ke Ling's I he Night Inn. Building on the
hard-won prewar development, the modern Chinese drama of wartime
Shanghai served the needs of its time and passed on more than it had
inherited.

THREE

Critical Ground:
The Transformation of
the May Fourth Era

L D. Huters

By 19.^6 the May Fourth tradition of hterary reform had fallen on hard
limes. 1 he sense of common purpose that had prevailed during the early
1920s had long since vanished; even the unity of the movement's left
wing — a unity that had seemed so impressive at the time of the forma-
tion of the League of Left-Wing Writers in 1930 — had disintegrated
under the pressure of constant factional bickering. The Two Slogans
debate of 1936, which presented the unedifying spectacle of a dying Lu
Xun lashing out at younger League allies, indicates the depth to which
spirits had sunk.

With the increasing encroachment of the Japanese, however, and the
eventual invasion in 1937, the dispersed energies of the literary revolution
began to reassemble. After July 1937, the various alienated heirs of May
Fourth put aside their differences of personality and of literary philosophy
to join the common war effort. In a sense, this revival in the early war
years represented one more in a series of waves of politicization of the
literary scene, much like those occasioned by the revolution of 1925—1927
and by the formation of the League in 1930. Those earlier occasions,
however, had never been marked by the near-unanimity of response that
greeted the mobilization of 19.37. Nor had any earlier politicization proved
very enduring, as the dismal events of \9^6 demonstrated so well.

For a variety of reasons, the politicization of 1937 was to be both
profound and long-lasting. For one, the war against Japan was to last for
eight years. A more important factor, however, was the wartime growth ot
the Communist-held regions of North C hina. 1 hese pnn uled a location
where the cultural authorities ot the C-Oinnuinisi capital, ^ an an, could put
into practice theories about mass literature and national forms that had

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TRANSFORMATION OF THt MAY FOUR IH tRA

been the focus oi attention among literary theorists in the dcLade before
the war. By the 1940s the results of this experuiientation had been formu-
lated into a comprehensive theory that stood in sharp contrast to the
principal tenets of May Fourth writing. Whereas the new literature after
1919 had been urban, produced by the educated largely for the educated
and highly influenced by Western forms, the revolutionary literature pre-
scribed by Yan*an was predominandy rural, aimed at a mass audience and
modeled on indigenous literary techniques.

During the war, writers outside the Communist zones were divided into
two distinct groups: those who had remained in the occupied coastal cities
and those who had migrated with the government to China's Southwest.
While nearly all these authors shared a sense of political engagement with
the writers in Yan'an, literary developments in the two regions pro(^ded
along different lines. In the occupied cities a sense of virtuous resistance to
an absolute wrong contributed to an abiding concern with politics, while
the increasing venality of the Nationalist government generated a combi-
nation of heightened political awareness and cynical despair in the South-
west. Although the three regions were largely isolated from one another,
each had a rough idea of cultural events in the other two. Given the plain
frustrations of life (and art) in the non-Communist areas, authors there
came to regard Yan'an as the seat of the political and cultural future.
Thus, for the first time, the literary fruits of the May Fourth movement
were held up to invidious comparison with works that existed in fact, not
merely in theory. This was a powerful additional stimulus tor the continu-
ing political concern of the May Fourth writers.

With the end of the war against japan in 1945, however, much of the
motivation tor continued politicization of Inerature in the newly rcumticd
"White," or Nationalist-controlled, areas seems to have disappeared. At
this time, in fact, most urban Chinese allowed themselves a moment of
optimism about the iuiure of their country. The simple tact that the debili-
tating struggle against Japan had ended combined with awareness of
China's radically elevated status in world politics to foster this hope. These
factors were further linked with popular confidence that, with the ex-
pected lowering of the barriers that had divided the three great areas of
wartime China, public opinion woidd force formation of a liberal, demo-
cratic government. For its part, the urban literary establishment hoped that
this new freedom and democracy would foster a burgeoning of arts and
literature worthy of the nation's new prestige. Thus the respected critic
Zheng Zhenduo declared, in the Inaugural Words" to the new journal
Wetryi fuxing [Literary renaissance], that the postwar period would at last
witness the culmination of the "unfinished work of the May Fourth move-
ment. What Zheng apparently had in mind was a fruirion of the hope for

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T. D. HUTHRS

a literary renaissance that had so inspired early May Fourth authors.' And
in the 1920s, at least, this hope had clearly implied a literature written to
international rather than to national standards.

Along with this optimism, however, Zheng also expressed the equally
common feeling that this cultural development could not **be separated
from society,** that the humanitarianism of the new literature could not be
divorced from a similar humanitarianism in the realm of public policy:
''We do not write just for the sake of writing, but we also consider that we
should accord with the overall direction of the new China and write for
the sake of democracy and for the vast majority of the people.**' Within
this short statement, then, rest the two ideas— of a literary renaissance and
of the ultimate dependence of literature upon politics — that had been the
lodestones around which literary debate had polarized itself since the early
days of the May Fourth era. While Zheng could maintain the two ideas
harmoniously in early 1946, the central faa about the urban literary arena
in the postwar years was that it progressively abandoned the former con-
ception in favor of the latter. Events of the civil war were to immediately
rekmdle the political fervor that had characterized the period of the War
of Resistance and to make impossible any return to the sort of exclusive
concern w ith esthetics that had in the mid-1930s been such a Strong ele-
ment of the May Fourth heritage.

Factors both external to and within the urban literary arena precipitated
the rapid rurnmg away from the notion of literary autonomy, which many
prewar academic authors had seen as implicit in the idea of renaissance, to
the idea of literature as a vehicle of social concern. Fhe bitter experiences
both ot writers and o\ the publishing trade in general provided powcrtul
external compulsion for this transformation. Equally important was the
fact that a long-unresolved theoretical debate, ongoing within Chinese
literary circles even before the May Fourth movement began, came to a
head during this period and pushed cultural opinion decisively in one
direction. These parallel extrinsic and intrinsic trends combined by 1949
to put literature and writers into a position of almost total dependence
upon politics. With the Communist victory in 1949, the ascendance of the
literary line first promulgated in Yan*an in 1942 was to be expected, but
the continuing acquiescence of the writers of the May Fourth tradition to
this line comes as something of a surprise. However, a detailed look at

' Zheng Zhenduo, "Fakan ci" In n i^ural words], Wenyi fuxing [Literary renaissance], 1,1
(10 janiiary 1946), p. 6. For sittiilar hopeful statements, see C. S. Ch'ien (Qian Zhongshvi),
"Chinese Literature," in Cao Wcnyan, ed., Ihe Chinese Year Book (1944-1945) (Shanghai:
Shanghai Daily Tribune, 1946), pp. 127-128.

^ Zheng, "Fakan d," p. 6. For other expressions of the sense that culture was dependent
upon society, see, among others, Shi Ren, "Wenhua yu zhengzhi** (Culture and politics], in
Wen xun [Literary inquiry] 8,1 (15 January 1948): 369.

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events on the urban literary scene during the years after 1945 will demon-
strate how this acquiescence came to be inevitable.

THE PRESSURE OF EXTERNAL EVENTS

In Shanghai during 1945 it would have been difficuh to predict the
denouement of this contest for the ultimate disposition of literature. At a
meeting held on December 17, 1945» the Shanghai branch of the Chinese
National Association for Literature and the Arts (Zhonghua quanguo
wenyi xiehui) was founded. The chairman of the newly constituted group,
Zheng Zhenduo, noted that the organization was the successor to the
Chinese National Anti-Aggression Association for Literature and the Arts
(Zhonghua quanguo kangdi wenyi xiehui), which had been formed at
Hankou in 1938 and had managed through the entire war both to main-
tain itself and to retain the membership of writers from all shades of the
political, if not the social, spectrum. Zheng remarked that nonpartisanship
had been the strong point of the earlier group, that it had not had internal
factions, and that it had had branches throughout the country, including
Yan'an and occupied Shanghai.^ Zheng also stressed that the new organ-
ization was meant to benefit authors by protecting copyri^ts and aiding
the down-and-out. The writer Yao Pengzi (now best known as the father
of Yao Wenyuan) followed with a more detailed report of the earlier
association's activities in the Southwest, while the dramatist and critic I.i
jianwu told of life in Shanghai under the Japanese.^ I he authors ui atten-
dance ranged from political activists such as Lu Xun's widow, Xu
Guangping, to the dour Shi I uo, who had been a member of the estheti-
cally minded Capital cliciue (jingpai) in 1930s Peking (then Beipmg). At
the end of the meeting three resolutions were passed. The first called for
the removal of censorship, the second tor the guarantee of copyright, and
the third for a special committee to mvestigate traitors. '

The unity manifest in the collection of writers present at this meeting
and in their various pronouncements stands in impressive contrast to the
contentious groupings and verbal battling in the literary circles of prewar
Shanghai.^ More than diis, much of 21heng's speech was devoted to the
first two resolutions, which evince a determination to make writing a

Zhau Jingshen, "Ji Shanghai wenxie chengli dahui" [Nutcs un the luunJing meeting ot
the Shanghai Association for Uteratuxe and the Arts], Wenyi fuxing 1,1 (10 January 1946):
125. For a chattier account of diis meeting by die same author, see the chapter, "Shanghai

wenyijie de yige shenghui" (A great meeting in Shanghai httr.iry circles], in Wetltan yijiu
(Memories of the hterary stage] (Shanghai: Beixin shuju, 1948), pp. 152—163.
^ Zhao Jingshen, "ji Shanghai wenxie," p. 126.

* Appended to Zhao Jingshen, "Ji Shanghai wenxie," p. 127.

* Hus unity is noted by Yao Sufeng in **Ai Shanghai wenhua" [Mourn for Shanghai
culture), Shanghai wenhua [Shanghai culture] 8 (September 1946): 25.

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T. D. HUTERS

viable profession. Along with this almost trade-union flavor, however,
there was a political coloration not far below the surface. The declaration
made by the meeting and appended to Zhao Jingshen's account of the
gathering is full of references to the sense of wartime mission that had
been the raison d'etre of the parent Anti- Aggression Association. Its stress
upon the responsibilities of literature to society clearly echoes Zheng
Zhenduo's "Inaugural Words." Like Zheng's remarks, the declaration dis-
plays the ambiguity inherent in regarding literature both as autonomous
and as part of the political process.

The wartime unity, however, had come about through the quintessen-
tially political desire to resist aggression. Purely professional issues, such as
defense of copyright, had yet to prove they could sustain this unity in
postwar times. For professional issues ever to replace the resonant political
themes of the war, the economy of the nation would have had to change
from a wartime to a peacetime footing. Only this would have allowed
professional writers to support themselves at their trade. That no such
change took place must be counted as the major reason that professional
considerations as such would ultimately be of minor concern to authors:
given the economic situation of China in the late 1940s, no profession
could arise about which to be concerned.^

The damage that inflation visited upon the urban middle class in this
period is well known. Publishing, however, was hit doublv hard: it suf-
fered both from the inflation of its basic costs as well as from its depen-
dence — for its very existence — upon the ever-diminishing purchasing
power of the petite bourgeoisie. It was thus caught in a squeeze between
rising costs and its inability to raise prices fast enough to keep pace. Since
wages were subject after April 1946 to automatic escalation according to a
government-entorced cost-of-living index/ the only elastic cost was the
manuscript fee. This fell to miserably low levels.^ The modern Chinese

Tian Han was astute enough to see that professionalization was a moot point as long as
the civil war ravaged the economy. See "Zhao hun" [Calling back the soulj, Shanghai
wenhua 9 (October 1946): 18.

' See Suzanne Pepper, Civil War in China: The PoUticat Struggle, 1945-1949 (Berkeley:
University- of California Press, 1978), pp. 100-101.

" Sec also "Sh.mgh.ii witihua" 'Shaiii;hai culture] section of Shaftf^lhu wcuhua 4 (May
1946): 6. Some ot the more tlagraiit cx.mipics include the fact that newspapers could not
afford to pay authors as much per word as it cost to set the t>'pe. I he figures for early 1946
were 5000 yuan for each 1000 characters for manuscripc fees, as against 6400 yuan per 1000
words in typesetting costs. See "Shanghai wenhuajie jiantao zu<nanhui" (Panel discussion on
the cultural situatum m Shanghai], Shiini^hai wenhua 4 iMay 1946 : 14. The discussion
group included Zheng Zhenduo, Tang Tao, and Ke Ling. To give some idea of prices at the
time, the issue of Shanghai wenhua in which the panel discussion appeared cost 400 yuan.

Probably the most extreme example is the fee that Shen Congwen collected for royalties
from the Kaiming Book Company. For an eighteen-year period, ending in the summer of
1946, Shen received a grand total of 360 yuan. See "Zhongguo wenhua" [Chinese culturej

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TRANSFORMATION OF THt MAY FOUR IH ERA

writer's dream of supporting himself at his trade thus receded even further
during the postwar years.'" Hven when also working as an editor, a writer
had difficulty making ends meet. It was not unusual to find "literary
workers** holding two or more jobs, one of which was invariably teaching,
unpleasant as that pursuit was to many writers." The cost to literary
creativity of such scrambling to stay solvent should be evident.

This uncertainty of livelihood for individuals was matched by similar
uncertainty among publishers of books, journals, and newspapers. All con-
temporary discussions of the state of the trade at this time mention its
fragility as its most pertinent characteristic. That the first editions of most
books ran between one and two thousand copies, that a book was re-
garded as a runaway bestseller if it sold over ten thousand copies, and that
even a newspaper was regarded as doing well if its circulation reached
twenty thousand — ^all give some substance to the constant reiteration of
this tale of woe. Furthermore, purchases of advertisements were regarded
by advertisers as little more than acts of charity, not as a vital part of a
marketing procedure.

section ot Shanghai wenhua 9 (October 1946i): 9-10. In this interview Shen shows that his
relatively low rate ot htcrary productivity made it impossible tor him to live ott his writing.
He claims that Ba Jin was the only living Chinese writer to have been able to do so.

This dream was given expression in an untitled 1945 article by Lao She, recently
translated in Chinese Literature 11 (1978) (see especially pp. 59-60). Lao She says that he
attempted to becf)me a professional writer through the writing of Luotuo Xiiitit^zi | C amel
Xiangzi]. He did, in fact, succeed, but only through the "royalties" (actually a substantial
honorarium) from the American edition of the English translation of the work.

" Lao She is very clear about this in the article cited above: **! do not like teaching. For
one thing, I'm not a very learned person, and so I sometimes feel uneasy. Even if 1 had been
able to teach well, it did not afford me the same pleasure as writing" (p. 60). Xu Xu, just as
his bestseller hcftg xuo.xiao [The soughing wind] was being published in 1940, gave voice to
the feeling that teaching "harmed his creativity/' See "Shanghai wenhua" section of Shanghai
wenhm 9 (October 1946): 4.

As for m<x>nli^ring, Zheng Zhenduo (as of 1946 . in addition to serving on official
commissions in charge of recovering (Chinese bt)oks that the Japanese and puppet niU rs had
collected, was editor of the "general interest" magazine Mtnzhti [Democracy], coeditor of
Wenyi fuxing, and editor of the literary supplement {Fukan) of the newspaper Lianhe ribao,
as well at being a sought>af«er contributor to other journals.

Ra jin indicates the precariousness of publishing in the afterword to his bestseller Diu
bwgiht ( I hc tourth ward]. He notes that the original publisher folded before the book was
released; sec The lourth Ward, "Houji" (Shanghai; Chcnguang, l'^4H;, p. 210.

For figures on the printing of books, see Lou Feng, '^Shati^hai u/euhm: dodiurende
bank!" [^anghai Culture: the reader's companion], Shanghai wenhua 7 (August 1946): 62.
The author notes ominously that, of the 2000 copies printed, it was common to sell only 200
or MM). See alst) Lec-hsia H^u I log, (int'crnntcnt CoHtrnl of the Press in Modern China,
1900-1^49 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1974), p. 256, n. 15. Eor figures
on newspapers and journals, see Zhuang Darong, "Zhongguo ye you 'zuixiaoshu* ma?"
[Does China also have 'bestsellers' ?|, Shanghai wenhua 2 (10 February 1946): 6-7. The
editors of Shanghai wenhua noted in their sixth issue (July 1946), p. 7, that they would like

I . D. HUTERS

The existence ot a flourishing sensationalized popiihir press made these
difficulties even harder to bear tor the heirs ot May J ourth, who worked
in what they regarded as the mainstream of publishing. One commentator
noted that, whereas the literary stage in prewar Shanghai had been domi-
nated by the two mutually exclusive camps of '"progressives" and "conser-
vatives," that breach had been healed only to be replaced by one between
the consolidated ''orthodox*' camp and a newly ascendant ''pornographic"
camp.*^ The split between leftist and "nonpolitical" writers had resolved
itself into a more traditional opposition between what the urban literary
establishment regarded as "high" and "low" culture. The principal me-
dium for this sort of new popular literature was the "tabloid magazine"
{xiaobaohua zhoukan), so called because it was the successor to the pre-
war tabloid "mosquito press." Such organs had become periodicals after
1945, when it proved easier to secure governmental licensing as weeklies
than as dailies.''* The healthy circulation of these tabloids gave evidence
that, even were the publishing world to become financially viable, it would
not necessarily redound to the benefit of serious writers. Awareness of this
fact threw a long shadow over the literary arena: not only was doubt cast
on the possibility of a literary renaissance, but the situation also conflicted
with the humanitarian notion of literature in the service of the popular
will. The only way out of the resulting impasse, and the one that the critic
Yao Suteng took, was to posit that contemporary culture had been poi-
soned at the source by some pt)werful force. Speculation about the nature
of that force was not long in coming.

When one considers what was widely regarded as the general lowering
of taste in the mid-194()s, the contrast with the courageous theater scene in
occupied Shanghai immediately crops up. iNot only had the luminaries of
the Shanghai intelligentsia been attracted to playwriting, but the theater in

20,000 subscribers, whidt would be a "firni basis'* on which to continue their venture. They
also admitted that at the time they were quite far from that fii;uri .

According to Cao Juren. the hupest-selhng pcrioJu.jl ot the time was Guancha [Ob-
server], a liberal Shanghai publication that had a circulation over 57,000. Cao notes, how-
ever, that had it not been for obvious govenunent restrictions, its circulation would most
likely have gone over 100,000. See Caifangerfi (News coverage: the second collection] (Hong
Kong: Chuangkan chubanshe, 1954), p. 95.

" See Yao Sufctig, "Ai Sh.inghai wenhua," p. 25. Sec .ilso Zhiiaiig IXiroiig, "Zhongguo ye
you," p. 6. The lack of a tunctioning writer's market is perhaps best illustrated by the tact
that, even thou^ manuscript fees in the popular press were between 7500 yuan and 10,000
yuan for eadi 1000 characters (i.e., almost twice the rate for the mainstream press [see note
9]), there was said to be a shortage of manuscripts. This is . i ^ ' 1v a good indication of the
impossibility of earning a living wage via creative writiiiti. Sec also note 14 below.

For inlormation on the tabloids, sec "Xiaubaohua /houkan wenti zuotanhui" (Fane!
discussion on die question of tabloid weekliesl, Shanghai wetihua 4 (May 1946): 115-117.
An interesting beet of die difficulty with licensing is that much of it qwang from the
suspicion of the authorities about the ubioid publishers* complicity with die Japanese (ibid.,
p. 15).

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TRANSFORMA HON OF I Ht MAY hOURI H tRA

those years had actually been commercially viable (a fact that caused some
of the playwrights to grow defensive in the face of a certain amount of
scorn from the left).'' While reliance on the market — not to mention the
fear of Japanese and "puppet" censorship — had precluded the sort of obvi-
ous political message apparently favored by the playwright Tian Han, the
fact remained diat the very aa of participation in theatrical activities was
highly political.*^ Thus, while plays produced at this time most often con-
tained no explicit political content, authors such as Li Jianwu were person-
ally politicized by their experiences. In other words, the Shanghai ''theater
boom" was interpreted in the years immediately following as evidence that
the sort of highly charged political atmosphere that demanded personal
commitment was of maximum benefit to the arts.'^ At the same time, there
was a corollary tendency to regard the writers who had produced the
unsocially conscious literature so common in wartime Shanghai as having
been particularly predisposed to succumb to the blandishments of the
Japanese and puppet governments.'*

While there was an initial willingness to regard the "soft" (i.e., frivo-
lous) literature that continued to appear after the war as the result of the
reading public's natural desire to relax after eight years of enforced bad
news,'^ this notion soon gave way to another interpretation. As sensation-

For a capsule description of drama in occupied Shanghai that displays a certain defen-
siveness of tone, see I-i Jianwu's statement in "Zhanshi zhanhoii wenyi jiantao zuotanhui"
[Panel discussion on litcratiiro and the arts during wartuiu' and after', Slhini;hiii trcfihua 6
(July 1946): 14. For a lett-wing criticism of the commerciahzation ot the Shanghai theater,
see Tian Han, '*Zhao hun," p. 18. See also Edward Gunn*s article in this volume.

Li Jianwu, for instance, was eventually jailed during the final years of the war. See
2^ao Jingshen, "Ji Shanghai wenxic," p. 126.

' The Fact that so many writers produced either their best or their onlv works ot riction
or drama during the war consituted an empirical basis tor such a belieh this phenomenon is
discussed at greater length below. The contrast between wartime progress in the literary
movement and the stj^nattcm thereafter is duly noted by Hu Feng in "Xian omg chongpo
qifen he duoxing kaishi** [Begin with breaking up the atmosphere and the inertia], Zhongguo
zuojiii [The Chinese writer], inaugural issue (March I^MSi: S-ll. 1 his iournal was the
official organ of the Literature and the Arts Association and was heir to kangzhan wenyt
[Literature and the arts of the resistance). The latter magazine, as noted by Yao Pengzi (in
Zhao Jingshen, "Ji Shanghai wenxie") managed to publish throughout the war in the face of
great difficulties. The greater difficulties of writers in the late 1940s is shown by the fact that
the successor magazine, originally scheduled to appear m August 1946 (see "Shanghai wen-
hua" section of Shanghai wenhua 7 [August 1946J), did not actually appear until March
1948 and then published only three issues.

See, for example, Guo Shaoyu, "Cong wenrende xingqing sixiang lundao juanxingde
wenren" [l iterary people: from sensibilin.' to timidit\ |, W'cnxi fuxhtg 1,1: S.

Ibid. Ill this article CjUO gives this account of the genesis ot "soft" iiier.uurc while
showing the dangers to which it was subject. Lou heng ("Dushurende banlu, " p. bl) also
blamed the flood of pornographic materials on war-induced hedonism. Ke Ling seems to be
one of the few people who regarded the phenomenon of bad taste more or less simply as an
insoluble problem of human nature. See "Shanghai wenhuajie jiantao,** p. 13.

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T. D. HU I tRS

alistic writing came increasingly to dominate the market and as the pohrical
situation contmucd to deteriorate, many critics felt that the NatiunaUst
government was deUberately fostering frivolous literature to distract the
mass mind from serious concerns of state.^ That escapist literature had
been a prominent feature of the literary scene in the Southwest in the dreary
years after 1938^* could only have increased this suspicion. Thus, by 1947,
when the literary left was being progressively forced by strong governmental
action to move from Shanghai to Hong Kong, the left-wing critic Lin Mo-
ban could accuse this sensationalist stream of writing of being nothing other
than the cultural expression of the right-wing government: **ln these porno-
graphic publications they are in faa depicting their own lives.**^ The cul-
tural desert in which hopes for a literary renaissance had come to languish
was thus to be increasingly characterized in political terms.

The presence of American culture in postwar China also contributed to
this politicization. If American predominance in the postwar world had a
secure foundation in realpolitik fact, China's new leadership position in
world councils threw an even sharper light on its actual material weakness.
This \\ as as true in the arts as it was in politics. Furthermore, because of
Chma's physical size and population, it was inevitably compared with the
United States and the U.S.S.R.'^ The close contacts between the Chinese
and American governmenis, as well as the traditional Western dominance
in the treaty ports, made the United States' position in China dehnitely
pre-eminent over that of the Soviet Union. While America's steadfast sup-
port for the Nationalist regime was, after 1947, to cause an already politi-
cized intelligentsia to regard that countrv and all its works as evil on
simple political grounds, in 1945 there were already several cultural rea-
sons for Chinese literary figures to be alarmed about the American pre-
sence. The general attribution of the wartime drama boom** to the Japa-
nese-imposed ban on Hollywood films illustrates the substance of the
concern. The end of the war and die restunpdon of the supply of American
films saw the abrupt end of this vibrant theater.'^ But, as Ke Ling also

See Shen Congwen, "Zetn ban yifen hao hai)zhi" (How to run a good newspaperl,
Shjn)ihai u crihu.i, H (September 1946): 23. Shcii Dotes the prevalence of this theory while
denying its plausibility. Guo Shaoyu, in "Cong wenrende xmgqing," discusses hedonistic
literature and the colt of esdietictsm as arising from die same dti yan zhi ("poetry as [per-
sonal] expression") sources.

Lee-hsia Hsu Ting, Government Control, p. 14K.
" Lin Mohan, "Chuiside 'liumang wenhua' " iOn rhe dying "hoodhim culture"!, m Sht
he long [Lions and dragons] (Hong Kong: Renjian shuwu, 1949), pp. .?U-.? 1. Lhe article was
originally published in the 10 January 1947 issue of the Hong Kong newspaper Hua shang
bao.

^ See Zhuang Darong, "7h(>ni;<^iio ve vou," p. 6.

'* Sec Ke Ling's comments in "Shanghai wenhuajie )iantao," p. 14. it is important to note,
however, that Ke Ling also saw increased tear of censorship as contributing to this demise of
live theater.

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TRANSFORMATION OF THE MAY FOURTH tRA

notes, the flood ot American movies was only the most conspicuous part
of a general trend.

Throughout 1946, the magazine Shjughat wenbua [Shanghai culture)
discussed the enormous quantity ot American cultural imports of all kinds
as probably the most serious long-range problem facing a nation seeking
to establish a new culture of its own.^ The magazine, for its part, did its
best to balance each article it published about the cultural scene in the U.S.
with one about the Soviet Union, but this effort could not overcome the
tremendous commercial advantage that American publications had in the
coastal dties.^^ Most cultural figures felt both envious of the American
success (while wishing somehow to emulate it) and resentful of the conse-
quences of this success for the future of Chinese culture.^^ Such a mixture
of feelings led inevitably to very strongly held convictions. The tremendous
hostility toward the United States that came into existence among left-
wing intellectuals by 1949 thus, plainly, had other than strictly political
roots. To the extent that American culture had by then pre-empted the
local market, Chinese authors regarded the U.S. as a primary obstacle to
creation of an indigenous cultural milieu; and to the extent that American
cultural artifacts appealed to their audience's escapist tendencies, rather
than to the high seriousness that wartime experiences had imbued in **or-
thodox" Chinese writers, the United States was regarded as a force for
cultural reaction regardless of its activities in the civil war/''

While economic issues were central to the eventual disaffection of the
great majority of writers, it is unlikely that the turn away from the govern-
ment would have been so complete without the intermittent despotism of
the Nationalist Party's policy toward pubhshing and the world ot letters.
Virtually every policy the Party pursued politicized authors against it. The
most obvious example was government control of the press. The variety of

" See, for example, "Shanghai wenhuajie jiantao," p. 14, and especially "Wcixiandc
'dancheng jiaotong* " [A dangerous "one-way traific"], Shanghai wenhua 8 (September

1946): 13.

^ The "Shanghai wenhua" section of Shanghai wenhua 9 (October 1946), for instance,
notes (p. 5) that Time and Ufe had a combined circulation of 9000 in China in 1946. It is
unlikely that many magazines published in China achieved that figure. The problem of the
American presence in periodic.il sales is also discussed in "Shanghai wenhuajie jiantao," p. 14.

^This combination ol envy and resentment is apparent in the article of Zhuang Darong,
"Zhongguo \ c > ou." It is also a feature of Sun Dezhen's piece, "Guanyu wenhua jiaoliu" [On
cultural exchange], Shang^ wenhua 3 (March 1946): 12.

The notion that the United States was a force for cultural reaction can be found in
many articles ot this period. One of the most conspicuous is M.io Dun's "Hai xii zhunbci
diangqi er jianjuede douzheng" [We must still prepare for a long and arduous struggle], in
'^M5f " sazhounian jmian thuanji [Collection commemorating the thirtieth anniversary of the
May Fourth movement] (n.p.: Xinhua dmdian, 1949), especially pp. 40-41.

As another example, Cao Yu, on his American tour — as reported in the "Shanghai wen-
hua" section of Shiitighai wenhua 8 (September 1946); 6 — wrote back that the United States
was a place wholly devoted to the material and thus devoid of any inspiration to the writer.

I . D. HU 1 ERS

direct and indirect actions tlic autluHiiics look ai;ainsi dissenting publica-
tions was remarkable,"' if eventually counterproductive. While the govern-
ment had pursued essentially the same methods before the war, the mtel-
lectual environment in the intervening years had changed significantly. In
the 1930s the split between leftist and "nonpolitical" writers had tended to
isolate grievances against governmental suppression witiiin what had been
after all only a faction, influential though it may have been, in the publish-
ing world. However, the postwar unity of the intelligentsia — a unity forged
originally in opposition to the Japanese and maintained afterward by de-
termined resistance to the government's prosecution of the civil war —
caused governmental action against any segment of the print media to be
construed as an attack on the whole estate. Hostility between the Nation-
alist Party and the intellectuals became aggravated as each attack on offi-
cial policy invited a reprisal, which in turn resulted in more dissidence.
Ironically, the effect of the rhetoric of unity and freedom that the govern-
ment had encouraged in the early years of the war proved impossible to
contain when the ruling party changed its tack.

The politicization of the intelligentsia was a long process that had pro-
ceeded variously in the three great regions of wartime China, fiy the time
that the Southwest and the occupied zone were reunited at the end of the
war, the cultural figures in each region had evolved differeiu perspectives
on the situation of China. One can gain a clear picture of the demoraliza-
tion and consequent search for political solutions that occurred in the
Southwest by reading the wartime polemical writings of such prewar pil-
lars of the Capital clique as l.i duangtian and the very influential poet
Wen Yiduo. It seems that the more naive about politics these men had
been in 1937, the more they were affected by the dismal realities of Na-
tionalist rule after 1938.'" While physical privation was something for
which they were prepared, the spiritual oppression that afflicted them
increasingly as the war dragged on came as a real shock to the free-China
intellectuals. On the other hand, the cultural figures who had remained in
Shanghai had expected little but oppression from the Japanese occupiers;
there was no disillusionment when it proved to be forthcoming.^* The
simplicity of the Shanghai situation of *'us** and *'them" was, in fact,
decisive in increasing the sense of personal involvement that characterized
the drama movement.

For a partial listing, see Lee-hsia Hsu Ting, Government Control, p. 167f.

"' I hc best acfoiinr of this clisillu'.ionnicnt is to he found in VCVn Yiduo, "Bani.intfo huiyi
yii ganxiang" (Thoughts and memories ot the past eight vcars|, ui Wcfi Yiduo qiunji |( om-
plete works of Wen Yiduoj, (Shanghai: Kaiming, 1948), Jiji [Section Fj, "Yanjiang lu"
[Record o( speedies], pp. 17-22.

^' Probably the best account of a Shanghai intellectual's impressions of the war is Zheng
Zhenduo's Zhiju sanji [Hermit's miscellany] (Shangliai: Shangliai diuban gongsi, 1951).

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1 RANSt-ORMATION OF THt MAY FOUR! H tRA

The shock for those who stayed behind came, rather, in 1945. histead
of a sympathetic government of compatriots, the Shanghai writers en-
countered a ruthless and sclf-seekinu group of bureaucrats, trom whom the
most prominent mtellectuals ui the iiucriur had long been alienated. When
cultural notes were compared, for instance, it soon became apparent that
theater had been freer in occupied Shanghai than it had been in "free"
Chungking." At first, those who had gone inland hectored those who had
stayed behind: writers who had not lived under the wartime Nationalist
government were told of the serious political lessons they had yet to
leam.^^ But those who had stayed behind, if they had made any attempt to
resist the blandishments of the enemy, had undergone a very hard time of
it themselves.

Moreover, it was also true that communications between Shanghai and
the Southwest had never been completely severed. A number of plays
written in the interior, for instance, had been produced in Shanghai in the
early 1940s. It is thus fairly certain that the Shanghai writers had more
knowledge of conditions under the wartime Nationalists than Li Guang-
tian gave them credit for. Zheng Zhenduo's address at the inaugural meet-
ing of the Association for Literature and the Arts (discussed above) can, in
fact, be read as an impHcit warning to the rcttirtiing authorities against
trying to impose in Shanghai the repression that had bred so much discon-
tent in Kunming and Chungking. If it is true that Zheng and other writers
were willing to let bygones be bygones if the government was intetn upon
real liberalization, it is equalK' true that advance knowledge ot the dismal
record of Chiang Kai-shek's government had primed the Shanghai writers
to be particularly sensitive when as early as 1945 official interference
began to make itself felt.'^ For those unaware of the Nationalist Party's
wartime behavior, comparisons between the Japanese and the newly re-
turned government rapidly increased their political awareness, already
raised by wartime experiences. In any event, any initial differences between
the two groups were soon effaced by the realization that the situation
confronting them both after 1945 was as demanding as anything tiic) had
had to deal with m the years of the resistance struggle.

When writers eventually sought to express their concern over the reali-
ties of postwar China, however, they were confronted with more than just

Zheng Zhenduu makes this observation as part ot the "Zhanshi zhanhou wenyi jian-
tao," p. 14.

^ Li Guangtian was among those admonishing the writers who stayed in Shanghai; see

his 1946 essay, "Rende uaizao yu wenyi fongxiang" [Personal reform and the direction of
litoratun' and the arts], m l.un wenxue juioyu (On literary education) (Shanghai; XX'cnhua
gongzuobhe, 1950), pp. l-IO, especially pp. 8-9. The article is signiHcandy subtitled "Gei
kangzhan qijian liuzai lunxianqulide pengyoumen" [For our faienck who remained in the
occupied areas during the War of Resistance].

^ Lee-hsia Hsu Ung, Government Control, p. 167.

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T. D. HUTERS

censorship. Because ot both the feeble economic base of pubHshin^ and the
prohferation of bureaucratic racketeermg, much pubhshing (and nearly all
newspaper publishing) came under direct governmental control/' Even the
highly praised and editorially liberal newspaper Dagong bao [L'lmpariialJ
was backed by a faaion within the Nationalist Party .''^ Domination of the
market by such semi-offidal agencies made it diat much easier to silence
the opposition by first isolating it and then shutting it down.^^ As a result,
cultural figures increasingly came to feel that they could only counter this
heavy official hand through political participation of their own. The initial
sense among writers and journalists that they formed an estate eventually
developed into a consciousness of something like a dass distinction be-
tween working writers and well-connected publishers. And since, by 1947,
writers had learned by hard experience that politics had come to mean
nothing more than armed struggle, the only place they could turn was to
the Communist Party. The Party, for its part, was willing to hold out the
promise of complete freedom of the press, something the beleaguered Na-
tionalists could not bring themselves to support, even in theory.^' While it
is unlikely that many writers took the Communists' promises at face value,
one may presume that, by a certain point in the late 1940s, it no longer
mattered. Writers had become so inured to political control, whether im-
posed by the censor or by their own employers, that it had come to seem
inevitable. Objections came to center on the way it was exerdsed, rather
than on the fact of political control itself.

In such circumstances, it was impossible for anyone to adhere long to
the notion of a free and autonomous cultural realm. Thus Derk Boddc
could report from Peking in early 1949: "Most Chinese newspapermen
sincerely favor what the new government is doing and therefore accept the
new regulations without hesitation. This explains the ease with which their
publications have changed since liberation, despite the fact that in many
cases the staff of these publications has remained relatively intact save for

^' See ( no luren, CaifjHg. p. 148, and Lee-hsi.i Hsu Tiim. CfOi'crtimetit Control, pp. lf>> —
166. On pp. 14S and 168 Hsu Ting also notes the dependence of publishers upon govern-
ment contracts for textbooks.

^ Pepper, Civil War in China^ pp. 436--439, details the extent of the teladonship between
the government and Dagong bao. Cao Juren (in Caifang, pp. 149-150) explains the peculiar
independence of the newspaper, in spire (or, indeed, because) of this relationship.

The government's prefcrrcJ mechanism here was to w.iit tor the nidcpciuknt news-
papers, such as Wetihtii bao, to publish accounts ot events that could be construed as being
unfavorable to the government. Since these events were not reported in the controlled por-
tions of the [iress they were* in the eyes of the government, "opinions" and "rumors" that
were dflii^i-ratclv provocative, rather than news and thus grounds for action against the
newspapers that had published ihem. Sec Lee-hsia Hsu l ing, Government Control, pp. 168-
169, 177.

^ The policies of the government and of the Communist Party are set forth by Pan
Gmigzhan and Chen Jiakang, respectively, in "Xinwen ziyou wenti zuotanhui" (Panel discus-
sion on the question of freedom of the press], Shanghai wenhua 9 (Oaober 1946): 12-13.

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TRANSFORMATION OK IHE MAY FOURl H tRA

a tew shifts in the higher echelons."^'' Although its full consequences can-
not be explored here, n devastating sequence of external factors had in
these years pushed the literary establishment into a position of political
dependence from which it would prove impossible for it to extricate itself
after Liberation, even during those times when the Party momentarily
loosened its grip.

INTERNAL MOMENTUM

Like the external situation, the internal disposition of the urban literary
world influenced its evolution. Some changes were merely responses to the
external pressures, others the culmination of trends long extant in writing
and criticism. The hopes for a literary renaissance seemed to find justifica-
tion inmiediately after the war in the publication of a spate of works
written during it that expressed either their authors' experiences of the war
or a sophisticated view of the problems of modem China. Such works
included Qian Zhongshu's Weicheng [Besieged dty], Shi Tuo*s Guoyuan-
chengji [Records of Orchard City], and Li Guangtian's Yinli [Gravitation].
The news that Bian Zhilin, Feng Zhi, and Zang Kejia were all writing
fiction provided hope that such work wtnild continue to flourish, in the
realm of the theater, the publication ot such fruits of the Shanghai wartime
drama movement as Shi l uo and Ke Ling's Ye dian [The night innj and
the work of Li Jianwu was similarly auspicious.

It is interesting, however, that none of these writers — with the exception
of Shi Tuo and Li Jianwu — had previously been associated with fiction or
drama: they had all been poets and essayists before the war, and most
were literary scholars as well. This outstanding group of works obviously
reflected a new literary proficiency in China, but it pointed in several other
directions as well. For one thing, it was emblematic of the new unity in the
literary arena that these prewar "esiheies" wrote in the genres favored by
the leftist realist writers of the 1920s and 1930s, instead of the tra-
ditional — and conservative — j^enrcs of poetry and the essay. This new turn
to fiction and drama was also symptomatic of the authors' need for new
means of expression that were both more **faithful to reality** and not
bound up by tradition — a tradition that the war had convinced some was
most undesirable.'^

Derk Bodde, Peking Diary (Greenwich, Conn.: Fawoett» 1967), pp. 142-143.
^ On the unsuitabilicy of traditional ways of writing, see Wen Yiduo, "Xin wenyi he
wenxue yidian** [The new literature and arts and the liteiary heritage], in Qhm^, Jiji, pp.
29—30. For an account of the turn to dramn as a means of seeking realism, see Guo
Tianwen, "Li Jianwu lun" [An account ot Li Jianwu), Shanghai wenhua 6 (July 1946): 30-
31. For a theoretical account of the lowering of literary mode to express feelings believed to
be inexpressible in established modes, see Qian Zhongshu, Tan yi bt [Discussions on arts]
(Shanghai: Kaiming, 1948), pp. 42-43.

T. D. HUTtRS

The writers who moved into these new genres, however, did not do so
with the zeal one expects of converts — a hint that, external impediments to
htcrary expression aside, there were factors inhering m the Hierary situa-
tion that militated against a sense of an imminent explosion of crcatu it\ .
The actual attitude of these new novelists is revealed in their commcnis
about their new work, which are invariably more than ordinarily self-
effacing. Even as critics were proclaiming the new age of literature, some
of the more successful practitioners were oddly lacking in enthusiasm. Li
Guangtian, for instance, wrote in an afterword to Gravitation that, after
reading Madame Bovary, he

reali/cd that all I can do is follow a narrow p.ith and fdge straight ahead; it
really is quite pitiful. Ba jin's Qiyuafi [Leisure garden) is a good hook, the
best among those of his works that I've read. ... in the afterword he says

that **this novel is my creation.** This sentence moved me because most of
my sense of disillusionment [with myself] comes from my realization that my
own novel cannot be considered **a creation**; all it does is to profile history
and, at that, it only draws a simple oudine. I almost believe that I have a
limitation that cannot be overcome, that 1 am only fit at best to scribble a
few shorr essays. When I thought of this, 1 could not help but sense a
hopeless sort of sadness.^'

Qian Zhongshu wrote in a similar vein in the preface to Besieged City,
**I conceived how this book should be written, but my abilities were not up
to it; as it is actually written it does not accord with my ideal. The ideal is
nothing but an enticement, or even a jibe. Before the writing it is a beauti-
ful objective; after the writing is finished, it becomes a cruel contrast. '*^^
The tone of these comments suggests Cao Xueqin's famous indictment of
his own Shitoii ji [The story of the stone] as nothing but "pages full of idle
words'''' and carries with it the same ambiguity about the legitimacy of
the undertaking.

Li Jianwu, in a published "letter," made explicit some of the reasons for
this reticence. Remarking on how he came to write plays for a living, he
says: "I jumpeci from the i\ur\ tower, discarded my high-mindedness,
removed myself from the temptation [of being used by the enemy during
the war] and from that point on took the theater as inv livelihood. I
became what the gentry regard as an unspeakable ihespian [.v/^/J."^"' Li
goes on to comment, almost offhandedly, that although he is now con-
sidered to be a dramatist, he has no plans to write more plays.

These statements have several facets. The need to express the trauma of

*' Li Ciuangtian, ' ilouji" [Atterwordl to Yinli (Shai^jhai: Chenguanj;, 1948), p. v.
^ Qian Zhongshu, **Xu" [Preface] to Weicheng (Shanghai: Chenguang, 1949), p. i.
*^ David Hawkcs, trans.. The Story of the Stone (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1973), 1: 51.
** Li Jianwu, "Yu youren shu" [Letter to a friend], ShanghM wenhua 6 (July 1946): 28.

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TRANSFORMA 1 ION OF THE MAY FOURTH ERA

the war is clear, bur other components are more problematic. One of these
factors is the evident sense of shame and unfamiHarity in wnrkini: in what
had always been regarded as genres unworthy of the highly educated man.
Another, more nebulous, is a sense of the futiHty of literature itself. That is
to say, the feeling of not being able to reach the ideal was perhaps not so
much one of personal failure as the manifestation of an awareness that,
given the circumstances of the times, literature was a particularly frail
institution/^ In a sense, the time for a flourishing of modern Chinese
literature had passed before it had really arrived: the great works of Euro-
pean fictional and dramatic realism held out a promise that was, at the
same time, a reminder that the conditions that made them possible were
not to obtain in China. Highly educated and cosmopolitan Chinese au-
thors were condemned, if not to live in the past, then at least to be unable
to find a place for their talents in the present. From their standpoint the
literary future was bleak and uncertain.**^ Seen in this light, the fact that Li
Jianwu should cease to write plays, or that Gravitation was its author's
only novel, becomes less surprising. Rather than marking the beginning of
careers in creative writing, these wartime works were unique responses to
the times in which their highly educated authors lived. The literary tradi-
tion in which these men worked seems to have prevented them from
assuming a more affirmative posture toward the creation of a new litera-
ture, at least by thcm.'*^

If fiction and drama were marked by an initial efflorescence followed by
progressive stagnation, literary criticism enjoyed a vogue during the entire
period. Paradoxically, the enthusiasm lacking in an author's comments
upon his own work is often found instead in his comments as a critic.""
Ihe high esteem accorded criticism is indicated by the prevalent opinion
chat the failure of modern China to produce a successful body of creative

Leo Lee's comment that he detects in Lu Xun\ writings after 1926 "the hollow echo of
a despairing note: that the written word is ultmiately futile against the onshiught of the
inhuman" almost certainly applies to the group of writers under discussion here as well. See
Leo Lec, "Literature on the tve ot Revolution: Retiections on Lu Xun's Leftist Years, 1927-
1936." Modem China 2, 3 (July 1976): 290.

^ See Li jianwu*s '*Yu youren shu," p. 29, which he ends with tust such an expression of
pessimism.

Writing m 1979, Bian Zhilin painted a melancholy picture of his attempts at fiction
writing in the i940s. His sense of being driven by the nature and pace of events to work in a
genre in which he did not feel quite comfortable emerges clearly from the account. See Bian
Zhilin, "Wanchengyu kaiduan: jinian shiren Wen Yiduo bashi shengchen" [Completion and
beginnings: commemorating the eightieth birthday of the poet Wen Yiduo), in Xf/enxue
pinglun (Literary review) 3 (1979): 70-7L

^ See, for instance, Li Guangttan's defense of literature in "Wenxue yundong yu wenxue
chuangzuo" IThe literary movement and literary creation), in Lun wenxue fiaoyut espedally
p. 21. See also C S. Ch*ien, "Chinese Literature."

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T. D. HU 1 hRi)

literature was largely attributable to the lack of ob)ective and conscien-
tious criticism. Concern focused on two areas of critical inquiry: criticism
as a necessary prerequisite to an autonomous profession of literature and
criticism as the mediator between contending theories of literature. As Zhu
Ziqing (himself an influential critic) noted, the fact that there appeared at
this time more histories of Chinese literary criticism than of literature per
se reflected, among other things, an attempt to raise the status of
criticism.'*'

Criticism considered as a prerequisite, the first area of concern, was
essentially a catch-all. It reflected a mistaking of cause for effect: failing to
see the deep structural reasons, both external and internal, for the inability
of postwar Chinese literature to establish itself, writers placed the blame
on various technical features of the literary establishment itself. Shen
Congwen gave voice to this idea in an article entitled '^On the Movement
to Liberate Book Reviews," originally published in the Tianjin Dagong
boo. The failure of modern China to produce any great works of literature
should not be considered remarkable, he avers, in light of the fact that
literary circles are organized in self-protecting old-boy networks in which
critics occupy a beggarly position. Authors are thin-skinned and do not
admit the right of critics to take them to task. Accordingly, few serious
reviews are published, and there is no pressure on authors to raise the level
of their work.^*^ Li Chang/Jii, in an article pubHshed in May 1946, makes
very similar points, adding that whenever he asks friends to write reviews
they smile, sigh, and beg off for fear of becoming involved in personal
vendettas. (Earlier, while the war was on, they had declined for fear of
harming the community effort against the enemy.)" Both men advocated
the creation of a journal devoted exclusively to serious, impartial book
reviews.

The full extent to which the lack of good criticism was seen as an
impediment to the professionalization of writing, however, is outlined by
Mao Dun in an article he wrote for Shanghai wenhua. In condenming
what he calls the '*star system" [mingxing zhuyi) of modem Chinese let>
ters, he bemoans the difficulties of publishing the works of young writers.
Since there are no authoritative book reviews, reader and publisher alike
can only trust to past experience in selecting authors. This has led to a son
of feudal system in which, even if a publisher takes a chance on a new

Zhu Ziqing, " Shiwcnping' Jc fazhan" (The development of the "critical note"], Wenyi
fuxing 1,6 (July 1946): 75y-~6().

Shen Congwen, "Shupingde ziyou jietang yundong" [The movement to hberatc book
reviews], ^anghai wenhua 4 (May 1946): 18.

^' Li Changzhi, "Wenyi piping zai jintian" [Literarjr critidsm today], Wenchao yuekan
[Literary tide mondily] 1,1 (May 1946): 9-10.

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author, he will only do so under the sponsorship of, and with a preface
written hv, an already estahhshed writer."

While each of these points was valiti, the assumption that remedving
them would solve writers' problems represents an optimistic — even charac-
teristic — unwilhngness to grasp the more nettling underlying problems.
Hu Feng, for instance, goes so far in discounting purely economic factors
as to say that, in the past, material difficulties (combined with political
pressure) had even provided the impetus for the development of the move-
ment for a new literature.^^ The almost willful confusion of cause and
effect involved in assigning such a large portion of the blame for the
literary stalemate to deficiencies in criticism was not, however, something
new in the history of modem Chinese literature. Liang Qichao's assess-
ment of the novel as key to the ''renewal" of the Chinese nation is an
earlier and even clearer example of such confusion/^ The enormous influ-
ence granted to criticism refleaed not only a sense that good literature
could be legislated into existence, but also a deep ambivalence about the
nature of literature itself. On one hand, the very fact that so much atten-
tion was focused on the revival of literature bespoke a feeling that it was
one of the dominant categories of thought and a determining constituent
of the culture is a whole. On the other hand, the heavy emphasis on
criticism implies that literature was considered profoundly tractable, a
mere handmaiden to the more primary intellectual endeavors, important as
it may have been as esthetic packaging for them.

These two perspectives can in fact be related directly to the debate over
literature's status that constituted the second area of critical concern. This
debate had long been at the center of modern Chinese literary theory. The
generation of writers and critics who had been through the war included a
fairly specific notion of social accountability in their definition of "good"
literature. As had been the case throughout the period after the May
Fourth movement, however, critics sought — not alwavs verv successfully —
to differentiate their ideas of literature's social role trom the discredited
Neo-Confucian doctrine of "literature as the conveyance of the Tao" ( wen
yi zai dao). 1 he problem in denying this didactic theory was that its

Mao Dun, "Jiuzheng yizhong fengqi" (C^orrcct a certain trend], Shanghai ircnhua 8
{September 1446): 20—21. Althouch Mao Dun is criric.il ot trends in Chinese publishing, he
maintains that the situation in China lor young authors is better than it is in New York. At
least Chinese newspapers have their fukait ("feuilleton"} section, where new books can be
published serially and audience response measured. Shen Congwen, in his article "Zenyang
ban yifen hao h.Kvhi," p. 23) also stresses the importance of the ^/btf If to Chinese literature.

Hu Feng, "Xi.in cong chongpo qihii," p. 4

Liang Qichao, "Lun xiaoshuo yu qun/hi/hi guanxi" [On the relationship between
fiction and civil government], in Yinbrngshi wenfi leibum [Collected writings from the Ice*
Drinker's Studio arranged by category] (Taibei: Huazheng shuju, 1974), pp. 382-386.

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I . D. HU 1 tRS

traditional alternative, tagged with the name shi yan zhi — "poetry as [per-
sonal] expression" — by /hou Zuoren in 1931, struck the more poHtically
conscious writers of the May Fourth generation as offering merelv a li-
cense for indulgence in esthetic trivia/^ As early as 1919 certain writers
(soon to be founding members of the Literary Research Association) had
begun to search for elements from the tradition that could serve as founda-
tion for a new Chinese literary esthetic/*

That these efforts to create a theory of literature that combined a sense
of soda] responsibility with freedom of expression were largely unsuccess-
ful is indicated by the continuing debate over how the fusion was to be
effected. Wen Yiduo, whose education and position as one of the first
poets to create satisfactory new verse after 1919 lent him enormous pres-
tige in the literary community, added his voice to this search for a fusion
of the two theories in a 1944 article entitled ''Poetry and Criticism'* (Shi
yu piping). Wen set "poetry as irresponsible propaganda** against "poetry
as beautiful language."^'' What was new in this essay was the idea that,
although literature is "propaganda," it is "irresponsible"; in other words,
literature's effects are not necessarily commensurate with the intentions of
the author. Wen does not, however, abandon the idea that such effects are
real and important to society or that literature might even ultimately need
some sort of external control. Smce any notion of external control comes
close to censorship, which he rejects out of hand, Wen would appear to be
in a dilemma at this point.

Again, his reasoning in rejecting censorship is innovative: while censor-
ship could influence contemporary literature, he claims, it could have no
control over the reception of works produced in the past, A more active
governmental policy, such as that employed in the Soviet Union, of com-
pelling the creation of specific types of literature — what Wen calls "leading
writers by the nose" — is even less desirable. His reasoning goes as follows:

If, like leading oxen by the nose, the government forces poets to create
responsible poems — to commemorare each event ami the completion of each
building — then a lor of poetry will be produced, but the result will be that
the works so produced will be only propaganda and nut poetry. And since it

Zhou's theory about these two opposing modes of Hterature is most fully set forth in
Zhung^uu xin wenxue de yuanltu [The source ot the new Chinese literature) (beiping:
Renwen shudian, 1934).

Some of the essays diat tfeat this question include: Shen Yanbing (Mao Dun), "Shenma
shi wenxue?" (What is literature?], in Zhao Jiabi, ed., Zhongguo xin ivenxue daxi [Compre-
hensive anthology of the new Chinese literature], cited hereafter as Daxi (Shanghai: Liang-
you, 1935-1936; reprint ed.. Hong Kong: Wenxue yanjiu she, 1972), 2: 167-173; Zheng
Zhenduo, **Xin wenxueguande jian^e" [The establishment of a new view of literature], Daxi
2: 173-175; and Zhou Zuoren's "Rende wenxue" (Human literature], Dasd 1: 219-225.

Wen Yiduo, "Shi yu piping," in Quartfif Jiji, p. 43.

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TRANSFORMATION OF THE MAY FOURTH ERA

will not be poetry, then its force as propaganda will be diminished or will
vanish altogether. What will remain will be neither poetry nor propaganda,
but nothing at all/*

The subtlety of Wen's thinking can be seen here: although he asserts that
all literature is propaganda, he simultaneously points out that hterature
stripped of its esthetic features is not only not literature, but cannot even
serve usefully as propaganda.

Having seenungly eliminated most sources of control over literature that
could bring about his desired synthesis. Wen works his way out of his
dilemma by turiung to the one remaining source. After summarizing his
arguments, he suggests at the conclusion of the essay:

Poets cannot be held responsible [for the consequences of their work]. I have

said above that external pressure is necessary, but this external pressure
[should] not come from the government, but from society. And I thmk that
the gentlemen from the Bureau of Investigation are not up to the task of
determmmg whether or not poetry is "responsible propaganda." ihis task
should be entntsted to the critics, (p. 45, emphasis added)

Wen's position, then, was to hand the major theoretical problems of mod-
ern Chinese literature over to the critics. To his credit, he recognized the
difficulties this idea presented. In the summary to the essay he writes: "Thus
we need critics who understand life, understand poetry, understand [liter-
ary] effects, and understand what values are to make [literary] tools and
anthologies. But then, who are these critics to be? 1 do not know" (p. 49).

Wen's essay makes explicit the unspoken premises about the potential
authority of the critic that lay behind the various formulations of criti-
cism's role in creating good literature. This responsibility entailed a num-
ber of dirticult tasks: to show how harmful literature was also bad litera-
ture; to praise and point out the key features of good literature and thus to
serve as the arbiter of what should survive; to educate public taste through
this process; and to illustrate to the public which works of traditional
literature should continue to be appreciated and why.

Behind all these tasks, however, lay the more basic one of uniting the-
ories of the esthetic and pragmatic functions of literature. Any unity pro-
posed would have to be tenuous, espedaUy if authorial intention was not
to be accountable for the work's effect. The whole question of literature's
pragmatic function, moreover, raised the specter of external control; the
authoritative position assigned to critics by Wen only intensified this po-
tential danger. The agreement among most literary people that there
should be such a linkage, combined with the clear impossibility of any
purely literary solution to the problem, left a void in urban literary

"Ibid.

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1. D. HU 1 hRb

thought that demanded sonic sort of general theory. Because such a theory
was so ditticult to conceive, it came to be considered the primary task of
the critic to provide the solution. Yet while Wen sought — through the
institution of the critic — to have both freedom and control, even his subtle
mind ultimately had to beg the question of where this critical authority
was to come horn. This failure, in turn, left open the possibility that, as
the demand for social responsibility became ever more insistent, it would
be met in the cruder form of legislation.

In fact, the polarities that this supercritic was meant to resolve had
begun to reassert themselves even as Wen was writing. The patriotic,
enthusiastic style of writing of the early war years, which had commanded
near-universal allegiance, had long since broken down into a uniformly
optimistic and sloganeering literature known to all as ktvii^zlhin bagu ("re-
sistance formula**). The dominance of this style had caused a reaction,
which saw a number of writers abandon the official line in search of more
individual means of expression.^^ Given the contemporary intellectual cli-
mate, however, it was impossible for these writers to be very positive
about what they were doing. One such figure was the linguist Wang Li,
who wrote under the pen name Wang Liaoyi. In the preface to his col-
lected essays, he defends his "light" and "soft" style, maintaming that it is
accompanied by a certain seriousness of feehng that the sensitive reader
will be able to discern.

After referring explicitly to Cao Xuecim's prefatory remarks to The
Story of the Stone, Wang goes on to admit that

there are sonic essays that talk only of the moon and wind and that are truly

foolish. We should also recall, however, just what sort of circumstances force
(writers] to talk only of wind and moon. [The writers] are like a naughty boy
who docs not wish to trace characters; the teacher will not allow him to
write on the wall, so all he can do draw a picture of a crow on his text.*'"

While Wang (jii alifies the apparent detachment of this image with the
remark that ''a clever teacher, however, will perhaps be able to divine a
good deal from this crow," his desire to escape from literary dictation is
plain. But more than that, Wang's attitude reflects the continued influence
of the shi yjn :hi idea narrowly defined, with its severe restriction on the
scope of literature's relevance. While Wang does argue for a residual and
subtle significance to his essays, the fusion of esthetic and social function
that is the task of Wen's critic is not made easier by the rather passive
conception of Uterature that Wang's apology represents.

Cao Juren, WmtOM umshtmoH {xuji) [Fifty years in the literary arena, 111 (Hong Kong:
Xin wenhua chubanshe, 1971), pp. 156-157.

**" Wang Liaoyi (Wang Li), Lotigchnnii hing ciiao zhai stioyii f Miscellany from the
Dragon-and-lnsecc Carving Studio] (Shanghai: Guancha she, 1949), p. 4.

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Given his disposition to see criticism as the salvation of literature, the
temptation to legislate the role of the author was something that Wen
could not wholly resist, hi a speech entitled " The Path of I'ostwar Litera-
ture and the Arts" {Zhanhou wciiyide daolu)^ Wen withdrew the theoreti-
cal freedom that he had allowed authors in "Poetry and Criticism." The
speech begins with Wen outlining a three-stage evolution of humankind,
beginning with slave society, moving on to **free men,** and ending with
**die stage of masters.** Literature in each stage is bound by the spirit of
the age in which it is produced. Wen also stipulates, however, that these
stages are metaphysical rather than historical. The age of slavery, for
instance — for intellectuals, at least — can exist independently of specific
historical conditions: it is dependent, rather, upon the mentality of any
given writer.

In outlining the characteristics of each age. Wen first set forth the
notion that the literature and arts of the era of slavery are the **flowers of
physical or psychological wounds.** Beyond this, in such a society, ''alt
literature and arts are pitiful: talented slaves are appreciated by their
master, and the master thus releases them from work and patronizes them;
[the slaves], in turn, sing the praises of the master and propagate his
thought, in exchange for their keep they assist the master in oppressing
their own kind."*^' Even the "freedoiti" characteristic of free society is
nothing but the liberty to choose whether to continue as a s1;n c ''as with
the Confucians) or (as with the Taoists) to seek a passive freedom from
commitment rather than choosing affirmatively how to live. The Taoists
are thus only freed slaves rather than truly free men. The final stage, Wen
implies, when men seek mastery over their own destinies, will come about
only when the authorities revoke even the illusory freedom of the second
stage and the "freemen join the struggle of the slaves for mastery of their
own lives" (p. ?>^).

In contrast to the crucial role assigned to the critic in "Poetry and
Criticism," "The Path of Postwar Literature and the Arts" dwells almost
exclusively upon the role of the writer. Whereas m the former this role was
not specified, and authors were allowed "irresponsible" (i.e., disinterested)
esthetic contemplation, the clear import of the latter is that esthetic feel-
ings result from resistance — whether active or passive — to political oppres-
sion. This point is made more explicitly in an article on Qu Yuan written
by one ''Fan Shi** and published as the first of a series on Chinese vinriters
in Shanghai wenhua. Taking Qu Yuan as the originator of **pure** literary
writing in China, the article goes on to speculate that ''Qu Yuan*s achieve-
ment in literature is, of course, due to his personal cultivation. But his

" Wen Yiduo, ''Zhanhou wenyide daolu" [The postwar path ol literature), in Quattfi, Jiji,
p. 33.

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T. D. HUTERS

circumstances also contrihute to his success. Had he not had an adverse
tate, then he would have had no basis for writing his dolorous works.****
The popularity of Qu Yuan as a symbol of literary resistance to oppression
in the 1940s^' illustrates the extent to which resistance to a wretched
political environment came to be seen as essential to the creation of litera-
ture. Government sponsorship of die formulistic kangzhan bagu, which
had become to all intents and purposes completely apolitical by the end of
the war/^ helped to popularize the notion that, in some fundamental way,
all real literature was a refined sort of political protest: if the Nationalists
advocated anything, it was up to all people of conscience to hold to the
opposite. Thus even the minimalist Wang Liaoyi did not deny that his
work had a deeper and, by implication, political coloration.

This rush to identify literature so closely with the political high tide of
the day easily swept aside alternative explanations of the origins and func-
tions of literature. As the political situation had forced the publishing
industry into a dependent position, so did conceptual developments in the
cultural sphere force literary thought into a similar posture: there were
calls from every quarter for writing to deal exclusively with the "current
situation."^'' The problem of didacticism in the arts that had been so
obtrusive in the early May Fourth period thus regained complete pre-emi-
nence, coming in, as it were, through the back door. Literary theory had
marched off in a united front to resist first Japan and then the National-
ists. With the final defeat of the forces of reaction in 1949, literature was
left with no resources of its own on which to build: little or no literary
theory developed after 1937 to offer either justifications or methods tor
writing independently of political fluctuations.

The turn that many writers by the 1940s had made toward traditional-
ism perhaps best indicates their frustrations with the literary vocation. The
revival of the "literary heritage" offered them a safe haven from the exi-
gencies ot continuing to push for a genuine realignment of cultural ideas.
That the traditional modes of writing were sanctioned by the entire politi-
cal spectrum from Mao Zedong on the left to the Nationalists on the right

^ Fan Shi, '*Meiwende kaishanzhi zu — Qu Yuan" [Qu Yuan — die originator of esthetic

writing!, Shanghai wenhua 2 (March 1946): 24.

See, tor example. Wen Yiduo, "Renminde shiren — Qu Yuan" [Qu Yuan — the people's
poet], in Quan/f, Jiaji [Section AJ, pp. 259—262.

^ See die interesting comments by the actress Huang Zongying in die "Zhongguo wen-
hua** section of Shan^hm wenhua 7 (August 1946): 9. She complains atxmt the lack of
response the officially sponsored play Wanshi shibiao [Model teacher] received in Peking in
1946. When she maintained to a friend that the play was a worthwhile expression of the
feelings of the people in the wartime Southwest, the friend replied caustically that people in
the occupied areas weie «ck of seeing govenunent propaganda and widied to see instead
plays that gave expression to their fedingi of discontent with die postwar situation.

^Guo Monio's remarks in '*Zhanslu dianhou wenyi iiantao,** p. 15, ace typical.

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TRANSFORMATION OF THE MAY FOURTH ERA

made the journey to the past that much easier. Even within the broad
agreement on this point, however, certain fissures indicated a lack of con-
sensus about what Hterature was. Chang hengzhuan, for instance, stressed
the inevitable continuity between new and old, since both were the records
of one n uifMi.'''' The goal of all literary study, he said, should be to locate
the "literary mind":

The process of creation and the psychology of authors, ancient or modern,
Chinese or foreign, in creating a successful work probably do not differ very
much. When we study ancient authors we should seek in their works for this

psychology and this process of creation. In discussing literary theory we
should not seek any "ism" or any taction, nor should we seek after intellec-
tual trends; what wc should pay attention to are the esthetic features of
literature, to unearth the "literary mind." . . . Wc wish to connect the new
and the old, to build a bridge between them. ... llf we do this,] we shall
know what treasures are in our literature and we will, as a matter of course,
eliminate the arbitrary barriers between the new and the old that are the
result of our ignorance and lack of wisdom, (pp. 35-36)

Thus, while both C^liaiig and the leftist heirs to the debate over national
forms*' and to Mao's admonitions at the Yan'an "Talks" advocated the
study of the past, the similarities end there. Chang s faith in esthetic uni-
versal seems vastly removed from the utilitarian attitude toward tradition
that Guo Moruo exemplified in 1946 when he announced the need for
scholars "to use a new point of view [i.e., Marxism] to put our national
heritage straight.***

It was perhaps the great distance between these two views that caused
Wen Yiduo, in two of his last speeches, to question iconoclasdcally the
left*s wisdom in adopting old forms at all. For, as he says, **old forms are a
type of old habit. If we consider that we must use old forms, then this is
tantamount to admitting that old habits cannot be changed. I am, how-
ever, by nature a radical and am thus opposed to all old things and hope
that even the best of them will be eliminated. The other talk is just as

Chang Ffpg ipseud. ol C li iiig Ftiigzliuaii), "Xin wenxue yu gu wenxue" [New litera-
ture and old], 'W enxue zazhi [Literature magazine] 2,3 (August 1947): 28.

For the background of the national forms debate of the late 1930s, see Marian Gilik,
"Main Issues in the IMsaisston on ^National Forms* in Modem Chinese Literature," Asian
and African Studies (Bratislava) 10 1974): 97-111.

See his statement in "Zhanshi /hanhou wenyi jiantao," p. 15. For an cxvclltnt discus-
sion ot the traditionalism in Mao's view ot literature, see Bonnie S. McDougall s "Introduc-
tion: The Yan'an 'Talks' as Literary Theory," in Bonnie S. McDougall, ed., Mao Zedong's
'Talks at the Yan'an Conference on Literature ami Art": A Translation of the 1943 Text
with Commentary (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Center for Chinese Studies, 1980),
pp. 3-41.

" Wen ^'iduo, "Lun wenyide minzhu wenti" [On the question ot democracy in literature
and the arts], in Quanji, Jiji, p. 42.

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T. D. HUTERS

extreme; Wen compares the idea of literary heritage [wertxue yichan) to
the late Qing notion of national essence iguocui) and to earlier ideas of
hermit literature [shaultu wcnxuc). " The same Wen Yiduo who had spent
so much time researching early Chinese literature, and who had earlier
expressed such strict ideas about the responsibilities of literature, here
retreats from what would appear to be the logical culmination of his
various pursuits. The explanation would seem to be that, while he had
long suice abandoned purely esthetic theories of literature, he also per-
ceived that the later notion of literature as a critical vantage point on
reality would be endangered by a too-rapid assimilation of a tradition shot
through with elements of the Confucian wen yi zai ciao convention.

Finally, the didacticism that was coming to the fore in the 1940s was
augmented by the nature of the literary audience and by the social position
of writers in Nationalist-held areas. For all the talk about writing for the
masses that had gone on before the war and at Yan'an, in 1946 even such
a staunch progressive as Guo Moruo could still announce that the target of
urban literature was **educated youth,** which essentially meant secon-
dary-school students and, to a lesser extent, university students/' That, as
1 have already mentioned, most writers were at the same time teachers
surely lent a pedagogical cast to the relationship between writer and
reader. A rather poignant example is Mao Dun's admission that he
changed the original plan for his serialized novel Fushi [Putrefaction,
1941] in response to audience reaction. The first part of the novel depicts
the main character, Zhao Huiming, working in unwilling complicity with
the political police of the wartime Nationalists. Having been a left-wing
activist who was abandoned, pr^nant and destitute, by her equally mili-
tant lover, she had had no recourse but to go to work as a government
agent. For a time she is able to convince herself that by deliberately doing
poor work she is doing no real damage to her old cause. When her former
lover is captured, however, and she is made his interrogator, the situation
changes. The novel, written in diary form, then becomes a tortuous narra-
tive of her subjective mental anguish over the question of just what her
objective contribution has been to the inquisition and eventual execution
of the captured man. The work to this point is thus a portrayal of a
uniquely ambiguous character; her subjective innocence and objective guilt
are contrasted in a highly sophisticated manner.

^ Wen Yiduo, "Xin wenyi he wenxue yichan," p. 30.

"Zhanshi zhanhou wenyi jiantao," p. 15. A poll of reader preference taken by this
magazine in early 1946 seems to establish that there wen- siemfkant diffemioes in lirerary
taste bcr^\'een those "educated youth" that were in school and young hterate people already
in the work force. According to the magazine's statistics, those in the work force had a
preference for the "sensational" sort of book discussed above. See Sun Dezhen, "Ni zui
ai . . [You most prefer . . .] Shanghai wenhua 2 (February 1946): 22-23.

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TRANSFORMATION OF THE MAY FOURTH ERA

In an afterword to the 1954 edition, Mao Dun admits that his original
intention had been to end the work with the lover's execution, thereby
maintaining this disturbing ambiguity of character. Because, however, of
"readers' requests to give her a way to reform herself,"^ he added a few
sections in which Zhao Huiming regains her poHtical equilibrium and
begins to act again resolutely in the right cause. The author is at some
pains to point out that the execution's reradicalizadon of Huiming had
"actually not been the original plan; pressed by these demands, however, I
managed to find a way to 'pull' her out." He goes on to explain how he
had meant the novel to be read:

The self-blame, self-mockery, and rationalizations of Zhao Huiming in her
diary, if taken too literally, will cause one to develop an unqualified sym-
pathy for her. On the other hand, if one considers the particular nature of
novels m diary form and does not take literally Zhao Huiming's self-blame,
self-mockery, and rationalizations, one can sec how [these] are meant to
expose [her] contradictions, (p. 307)

Dependence upon a school-age group of readers, rather than upon an
older, more sophisticated audience capable of accepting ambiguity, consti-
tuted a definite limitation to the space in which literature had to grow. In
addition to a sense of social obligation and to internal critical momentum,
then, audience expectation was another strong factor in the push toward
the total politicization of literature.

ON TO LIBERATION

The concatenation of external and internal elements that moved litera-
ture into a dependence upon politics has had great consequences for post-
liberation Chinese culture. One such consequence has been the apparent
(and, to Westerners, somewhat surprising) acquiescence of most of the
principal literary figures of late Republican Oiina to the new regime's
strict enforcement of the ''politics takes command" line in cultural policy.
While this acquiescence is often attributed to the severity of government
policy, the contrast between the Chinese situation and that of the early
Soviet Union suggests that other factors were at work. The rapid fall in the
fortunes of literature and of the literary establishment during the last years
of Nationalist rule must surely be among the most significant of these
elements. The miserable position of writers in the 1940s must also figure
in the continuing loyalty of the leading writers of that period to the new
regime. like the proletariat, they owed their new-found job security and
more than adequate wages to the new government. Professional writers as

^ Mao Dun, "Houji" [Afterword] to Fushi, in Mao D$m tvenji (reprint ed., Hong Kong:
Jindai, 1966), 5: 305.

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T. D. HU TtRS

an estate would not have come into existence but tor the victory of the
Communist Party.

However, I would like to suggest tentatively, after Liberation the appa-
rent similarity between the positions ot the writers and the proletariat
became the source of new problems. Claiming that they had been as op-
pressed in the old society as any other group, the urban writers, with
livelihood at last secure, could theoretically justify filling the top jobs in
the newly established literary hierarchy. But, at the same time, diese vet-
eran writers were inevitably imbued with elitist and cosmopolitan literary
assumptions that ran counter to the Yan'an line. The Communist Party's
campaigns to promote amateur and proletarian writing after 1949 were
thus to be presided over by people whose training and background hardly
suited them to the role.^^ It is a great historical irony that, simultaneously
with their attainment of secure incomes and social status, the writers of the
May Fourth generation found themselves in a position where their creative
training and experience became, at best, irrelevant. The uncertainty result-
ing from the differing assumptions of May Fourth and Yan*an has clearly
been a major factor in the notably unstable literary situation of post-1949
China. That the clashes have not been more open or clear-cut, however, is
due to the experiences of the urban writers in the late 1940s.

The period since Liberation has witnessed a parting of the ways, even in
areas where the Party and the writers were in complete agreement during
the Republican years. The assumption, for instance, that literature is the
highest and most legitimate forum for the workmg out of policy persisted
in literary circles long after it had become obsolete in terms of Party needs.
Hu Feng's behavior in the years immediately after Liberation plainly re-
flects the idea of the literary critic as the purest sort of legislator that was
so prevalent in the Manichcan days of the late 1940s. For all the working
at cross-purposes and the false assumptions of unitv between writers and
the Party in this period, however, it is remarkable hou , even in times when
controls were loose, very few Chinese writers espoused purely esthetic
views of die function of literature. The legacy of the Capital clique seems
to have vanished without a trace from public view for years to come.
Examination of the critical ground of the 1940s indicates that writers had
begun to take a political view of the role of literature long before the Party
exercised its control.

For an Ulunuiutu^ discussion on this subject, see Lars Ragvald, "Professionalism and
Amateur Tendencies in Post-revolutionary Chinese Literature,*' Gdfsn Malmqvisr, ed.. Mod-
em Chinese Literature <md Its Social Context, in Nobel Symposium 32 [Stockholm* 1977],
pp. 152-179.

Part II

The Push
to Popularize,
1949-1979

FOUR

The Genie
and the Lamp:
Revolutionary Xiangsheng

Perry Link

There IS wide agreement that since the re\ olution, a chief function of Chmese
hteraturc and performing arts has been to intluence the attitudes, and hence
the behavior, of its andience m socially beneficial ways. Many examples are
available, and the devices through which correct attitudes are meant to be
imparted are apparent enough. But there is, at least outside (^hina, very little
evidence for what actually is imparted and tor how the messages thus received
Ht m with everything else in the audience's minds. Who actually readsorsees
what? Why? With what attitude? Is "model" behavior genuinely imitated?
Used only in outward presentations? Boring, perhaps?

Ironically, Western scholars have until recently been in a better position
to understand audience response to the popular Chinese literature of fifty
years ago than of current times. In 1929-1930 Zhang Henshui*s Tixiao
yinyuan [Fate in tears and laughter] became a top best-seller because of its
wide appeal to urban readers. Today we can pick up this novel and get a
good feeling for why it was popular. The reasons are complex, to be sure,
but at least they are laid before us, in rich detail, by the text itself. Since
the revolution, works have become best-sellers mainly because they are
available and have official approval, and far less because of any close
congruence with actual (as opposed to ideal) reader psychology. The dis-
tance between text and reader cannot, except in rare cases, be bridged by
examining the texts themselves. For that one needs other, more direct,
access to Chinese society.

The rare cases where a text can itself provide clues to its audience's
response include comedians' ''face and voice*" routines, or xiangsheng,^

' The term xiangsheng has a complex and largely obscure history. The characters used in

the modern term refer to "face" and "voice," which are two chief modes of the comedians*
expression, although gesture is also important. The first character, xiang, has been widely

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Modern xuiugsiwng is usually performed by two eomedians, who stand
side by side onstage before an audience. They tell stories, crack jokes, do
imitations, sing songs, and generally attempt to induce laughter and light-
heartedncss. Satire is the essence of the show, and their topics often in-
clude contemporary social problems such as bureaucratism, consumer
shortages, abuse of special privileges, and the overpolitidzation of art. The
audience laughs freely at the performances (there are no laugh cues), and
when tapes are made they include clearly audible audience response. Tapes
of successful pieces are sometimes broadcast across China over radio or
television. A few tapes are exported. To see xiangsheng, or to listen to
tapes of it, gives us access to at least one type of immediate, unconditioned
audience response in China. Interpretation of the laughter can of course be
difficult; but its hard kernel of authenticity is unquestionable.

The relation between xiangsheng and its audience is distinctive among
contemporary Chinese art forms in several ways. For one, it may have the
largest audience. People of every description — cadres, intellectuals,
workers, and peasants, of all ages and both sexes — ^all listen to xiangsheng.
Thouuh It was originally centered in the cities of Peking and Tianjin, radio
and loudspeakers have now brought it everywhere. Four-fifths of the prov-
inces have performing troupes of their own, and over a thousand pieces
arc officially in circulation. In addition, amateurs in work units perform
in-house shows about local issues. How manv private, informal perfor-
mances there are below this level is impossible to estimate. Xiangshettg's
simple, oral medium avoids problems such as ilHtcracy and the cost and
availability of books or theater productions.

Xiangsheng enjoys, moreover, a generally wider scope for political and
social satire than is officially allowed to other contemporary forms. I he
reasons for this are unclear but seem to stem partly from the assumption
that jokes are essentially unserious and that an oral form is by nature less
subversive than a written one. In any case, it is xiangsheng above every-
thing else that people say "vents one's gall" (Jiehen). Audience members
often cry out, "Exactly!**, **Couldn*t have said it better myself!**, and so
on. It seems clear that one reason people listened to xiangsheng during the
thaw after 1976 was to get the latest word on what social problems could
be openly discussed and how frank one could be about them. Plays and
short stories have also served these purposes, but xiangsheng has been not
only bolder than these but also quicker to reflect popular concerns. To
produce a play or publish a story can take many months, whereas xiang-
sheng pops up in a matter of weeks or even days. After the fall of the Gang

misinterpreted to mean "tacmg" or "mutual," so that one often sees xiangsheng translated as
"crosstalk" or "comedians* dialogue." It is true that most performances are dialogues, bur
monologues are also common, and three-, four- and even five-cornered performances also
occur.

RHVOLU I IONARV XIANGSHtNG

of Four, xiaugsheni^ was second only to wall posters in the speed of its
attack. Such speed is possible not only because of the siinplicity of produc-
ing xhingsheng but also because of its closeness to popular oral culture,
including the rumor mill. Unllatiermg anecdotes about famous figures
abound at this level, and in October 1976, when it suddenly became
permissible to relate these about four such figures, xuvigshcng had a ready
stock to draw from.

The semi-underground cabaret humor of the Eastern European coun-
tries cracks its jokes at the expense of the Communist Party. Chinese
xiangsheng, at least the aboveground performances, does the opposite; it
satirizes enemies of the Party both at home and abroad. Yet in terms of
audience appeal — i.e., of what is actually making people laugh — cabaret
and xiangsheng may not be poles apart. The point of a xiangsheng joke is
often ambiguous, and the reason for laughing is perhaps sometimes differ-
ent from that which won the joke official approval. Consider a 1977 piece
by Chang Baohua and Chang Guitian called '^Maozi gongchang" [The hat
factory].^ It is ostensibly aimed at the Gang of Four — especially at the way
they scattered unfair accusations (making people "wear hats**) — but one
must wonder how much of the spirited laughter it arouses has to do with
more general conditions in Chinese society. The piece begins:

A: Recently . . .

B: Yeah?

A: ... the goods of a certain factory have not been able to sell.

B: There actually exist factory goods that can*t be sold?

A: Nob()J\ wants them!

B: What kind of product?

A: Hats.

B: ril take (^nc! (audience lauglisj It just so happens 1 don't have a hat.

(B chuckles)

A: But these hats are big . . .

B: O.K.! An oversized hat makes you feel spiffy! (audience lau^s)

A: But it*s heavy!

B: Then it must be good and warm!

A: You can't stand wearing it. (laughter)

B: What's "standing it" got to do with wearing a hat? I can stand it.

A: Once it's on you can't get it off!

B: What kind of hat is this?

A: A counterrevolutionary hat.

B: (shouts) / can't stand it! (laughter) What factory sells this kind of hat?

A: The hat factory established by the Gang of Four.

The piece continues, a few moments later:

^ Included in a tape called "Baigujing xianxingji" [White Bone Demon unmasked], Art
Tune tapes, Hong Kong, no. BA-138.

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PERRY LINK

A: And they [the hats] are divided into three sizes: large, nieduini, and small.

B: They even have sizes! (laughter)

A: She [Jiang Qing] sticks various people with various hats.

B: What are the large hats?

A: Things like "renegade," "spy," "big warlord," "anti-Party element," "ca-
reerist,** ''capitalist-roader,*' "capitulationist,** **revisionist," **local

tv-ranr."

B: Wow I And the inL-diuin size?

A: "Black-line personage," "unrevohitionary," "deceitful scholar," "back-
stage manipulator," "sinister gangster," "empiricist," "democrat,"
**middie-of-the-roader," "chameleon." (laughter)

B: The medium hats come in pretty good proportions, too, I see. (laughter)
The small hats must . . . must be ... a little smaller, right?

A: The small ones? — **stumbling block,** **bender with the wind,** **goodie-
goodie,** "revisionist sprout," "rumor company," "messa^ tube,**
"countercurrent," "evil wind," "little reptile."^ (laughter)

B: A!l these hats are pretty heavy!

A: XX^ich size hat . . . do you think would Ht you?

B: 1 couldn't stand any ot them!

A: Well! Then how about one at reduced prices?

B: O.K. . . . No! (laughter) Not one of those either.

A: If they want you to wear one, then you have to wear it. Whether it fits or

not, wear it!
B: Oh! Yeah? Then who . . . doesn't wear one?
A: Anyone who says "yes" well, . . .

R: Oh?

A: rats diligently, lies a lot, or toadies conspicuously (laughter) doesn't have to

wear one.
B: Oh, you have to toady! (laughter)

A: Yeah! For example: if they say, "Charcoal briquettes are white** . . .

B: What?! Charcoal briquettes are white? Boloney! That*s "turning die truth

upside-down."
A: Hin . . . based on this skeptical attitude of yours . . .
B: (uneasy) . . . er , . , uh , . .
A: you get a small size hat!
B: What? (laughter) I've poured on lighter rtuid!
A: You have to go along with them!
B: Have to go along?
A: Yup!

B: Charcoal briqiu rri (ironically) They look just like New Year's dumplings

[which are whitei. (laughter)
A: But "rubber balls are square." (laughter)
B: All halls are covered with edges and corners! (laughter)
A: (imitating jiang QingJ "The moon abroad . . .

' Here the second half of the name list is especially funny because of the ihythmic appeal
of a 2-2-3 syllabic pattern.

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RtVOLU TIONARY XlANCiSHENCi

B: uh huh . . .

A: is brighter than China's moon." (laughter)

B: Right! One moon per location, (laughter)

A: (still imitating Jiang) **How accurate he is!" (laughter)

B: (aside) Can you imagine how guilty I feet?

A: If they say, . . . **Evcn foreigners* farts are fragrant** . . .

B: I should voice my agreement . . . and express my appreciation! (laughter)

A: It you do you won't have to wear rht ir hats!

B: \'cah, right, and I'm turned into a miserable wretch! (laughter)

A: Provided you speak up with words they want to hear, and do things they
want done; whether it be making up a little song, or singing an aria, or
dancing a dance, or handing in a school assignment — ^i£ you*ve said
anything that praises them . . .

B: What happens?

A: then you can leap to heaven at a single bound, go straight to the top — live
in a little mansion, eat special food, ride in a sedan.

B: Then — I've become a little crab! (laughter) Hey! So 1 have to obey orders
and work for them?

A: But Boss Jiang . . .

B: Yeah?

A: can get you into the Party!
B: Me?

A: One word will do it!

B: (pretending to address Jiang Qing) **My grand^ther is a ... ha ha ... old

Trotskyite!" (laughter)
A: (imitating Jiang; "Nothing of the sort!"
B: "My father's a renegade. "
A: "Doesn't count!" (laughter)
B: "And my history is . .
A: "pure!** (laughter)

B: ''On examinations I could never answer anything!**

A: ''That shows you have the spirit to go against the tide!** (laughter)

B: "You're really a guardian of standards.**

A: "And you can be deputy minister!"

B: "Thank you." (suddenly dropping his irony) Oh, mother! (laughter) This is

pure factionalism and selfish interest!
A: What's that?

B: Their line is simply: "Those who cooperate flourish and those who oppose
perish.**

A: We must struggle resolutely against them.

B: Struggle?

A: Yeah! All who obstruct their power-grabbing, who oppose their evil deeds,

who disobcv them, w ho do not submit to their control, who are not in
accord with their ideas, or whom they dislike for any reason, are all
potential clientele of the hat factory.

The pronouns "they** and ''their,'* which refer here to the Gang of
Four, have for several years been used in common parlance to mean the

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leadership generally, at whatever level. Such amhiguities as this are funda-
inental to xiiUigsheng's vitality. A tull accomii of why such passages are
amusing would be extremely complex; probably no one who performs or
listens to xiungsheng (much less anyone who administrates it) completely
understands the complexities.

THE APPEAL OF XIANGSHENG

To the untutored observer the performance of xiangsheng appears nat-
ural, almost casual. In fact, all pieces are set and are carefully rehearsed.
An elaborate classification system accords to every kind of joke and other
device a place and a special name. In modem xiangsheng, four basic skills
are recognized: speaking, imitating, joking, and singing. A performer must
be competent in all four but usually specializes in one or two. Each skill
has its subcategories. Joking, for example, includes more than a dozen
precisely labeled ways of setting up a punch line. No one has adequately
catalogued all these terms, although Hou Baolin, China's premier xiang-
sheng performer, does have plans to edit a dictionary of xiangsheng,^ Such
an effort is clearly beyond our scope here; instead, we may note some of
the attractions that listeners find in xiangsheng.

As soon as xiangsheng performers walk onstage they begin to establish
an atmosphere. One, frequently, is tall and thin, the other short and
round. They speak in droll tones, using simple language to address some
immediately interesting question. In the style of Hou Baolin, which is
imitated by Ma Ji and others of the "Hou school," they often ease the
approach to their audience by talking about the most immediate topic of
all; xidfigsheng performance itself: "I hear that xicingshcfig performers are
all rich in social experience,"' ''Xiangsheug performers have to be schol-
arly, right?",*" "It's really tough to be a xungsheng performer ... at the
very least you have to know how to talk." As the dialogue continues one
of the performers, the ")oke cracker" or dougcndc takes off from the
comments of his "joke setter" or pcfiggcnde. The success of the perfor-
mance depends upon maintaining the audience's sense of familiarity with
the characters, though each is familiar in a different way. The penggende
often speaks common sense, articulating the audience's own responses to

^ Hou Baolin, lecture at Peking Universir>', 2S September 1979. Gu Yewen has done some
preliminary cataloguing of xiangsheng terms in Xiangsheng jieshao (Introduction to xiang-
sheng] (Shanghai: Wcnyu diubanshe, 1952), pp. 52-64, as has Luo Rongshou in Xiangsheng
biaoyjn nuntan |A casual discussion of xiangsheng performance] (Shanghai: Wenyi chu-

banshc, 1 9^9 1, pp.

' Hou Baolin and Cjuo Qiru, "Xiangmian" [Physiognomy].

* Hou Baolin and Guo Qiru, "^Waipi Sanguo"" [A crazy annotation of The Three King-
doms],

^ Hou Baolin and Guo Qiru, "Xiju yu fangyan" [Hays and dialects].

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the less predictable dnuoende. But the audience can also feel they know the
duiigcnde precisely because of the narrow and distinctive range of his
behavior.

Like Archie Bunker, the dougende is a "character^ in the sense of a
well-known eccentric, someone whose general style is as consistent as his
particular responses are outlandish.^ For example, in a piece called "Xiju
zatan" [Random talk on plays], Hou Baolin is explaining (in jest) how he
learned to sing Peking opera as a child. He praaiced in the classroom
every day, he says, and the teacher liked him a lot:

A: He paid mc immense "attention" (the word means both "solicitude" and
"surveillance"!. Every day he helped me "develop" [meaning both "de-
velop singmg" and "develop better habits"].

B: He had to get you to "develop"! With you in the classroom there singing
opera!

A: You diink I was too naughty?

B: You bet you are! [the present tense implies that he still is].'

Here the mischievous irreverence of the dougende is projected onto a child.
The d<)ugeudc'\ iconoclasm, like that of a child, or ot Sun Wukong, is
funny because it appears to be a threat to social proprieties but in reality is
not. It offers the audience the psychic release of reahzing that a threat is
only illusory, and this induces laughter.'"*

The dnugende\ extravagant boasting works on the same principle. I alk
that would be repugnant in a normal social context is funny coming from
the mouth of the dougende:

A: If I were to perform Peking opera, now that would be beautiful, (laughter)

B: Oh?

A: Only . . . right now ... the way it looks ... 1 would say . . . I'm not so
completely imposing . . . (laughter)

B: Why's that?

A: Well 1 haven't got on my makeup or my Western sun, so 1 don t look

so . . . 100 percent beautiful! (laughter)
B: Right.

A: But Tm already pretty dam good!
B: Huh? You think you are, huh?'*

" Aeeording to J. R. Hoggart, the culture ot the biiglish working class places a high value
on distinctive "diaracters*** in life and in fiction, whom die average person can get to
"know" and who can express vicariously certain things he or she would like to express {The
Uses of Literacy [New York: Oxford University Press, 1970). pp. 154-155).

"* Hou Baolin and Ciuo Qirii, "Xiju zatan" [Random talk on plays].

Psychologists have tound that similar bases underlie many kmds ot laughter: people
laugh when tickled, for example, because tickling is a mock attack. See Arthur Koestler,
"Humour and Wit,** Encyclopedia Brittanica, 15th ed., 9:9.

" Hou and Guo, "Xiju zatan."

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One of the doui^ende's endearing qualities, which makes us forgive all,
is the sprightly cleverness that he both possesses himself and portrays in
others. In a piece about the People's Liberation Army braving the snows of
Everest, an avalanche suddenly roars down, leaving a great wall of snow in
the camp. The dougende tells how the soldiers fashion it into a movie
screen.'^ In another piece we are made to feel happy when a child is smart
enough to sneak into an opera house — ^past intimidating guards — by pre-
tending he is a waiter delivering soup to a singer.'^ Such cleverness is
reminiscent of Zhuge Liang's, which has always been exhilarating to the
Chinese mind. But to this cleverness the dougende sometimes adds the
extra spice of paradoxical nonsense. He even wants, sometimes, to make
sense of the absurdly irrational. He can relate things that seemingly have
no relationship, as when Hou Baolin explains the close connection be-
tween opera and irrigation (singers need water)," or as when he says that
The Three Kingdoms is called "three" because everything in the story
comes in threes. When someone points out a higher number in the text,
Hou counters, "But you have to pass through three to get there/'*'

Such cleverness can also explain away paradoxes, e.g., that ot "tears
that make you laugh.""* Hou Baolin explains that some film and theater
actors are so unnatural in their portrayals t)f weeping that one can only
laugh at them. He provides some imitations, and the audience roars in
admiration of both his wit and his performance. Later, impossibly
cornered by one of his own boasts, he can still find a way out:

A: After I graduated from college I took up a career in drama.

B: Uh huh.

A: Right until the present day.

B: Oh.

A: I've been studying drama now for more than fifty years!
B; Huh? What's that? Hey . . .
A: So my grasp of drama . . .

B: Hey! Hey! You . . . Hey, excuse me, but . . . (^ts A*s attention) How many
years have you studied drama?

A: Over fifty.
B: Oh. Over fifty.

A: So my grasp . . .

B: Na, na, na, na, na! (laughter) May 1 please know how old you are this

year?
A: Thirty-eight.

\X .U1U |itib.i(\ ''Gaoyuan caihong" [Rainbow hues on the plateau], performed by Ma Ji

and Tang Jic/honi;.

" Hou and Ciuo, "Xiju zatan."

Ibid.

" Hou and Guo, "Waipi Sanguo.**
Hou and Guo, "Xiju zatan."

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RtVOLUlIONARY MASGStitNG

B: Thir — (laughter) 1 thought so!

A; So my . . .

B: Now hold on just a minute! (laughter)

A: Huh?

B: If you*re thirty-eight this year, how can it be youVe been studying drama
for over fifty years?

A: What?

B: Yeah. How . . . how . . . can you explain this?

A: (embarrassing silence) Sure!

B: Hm?

A: It . . . well ... it may be a bit short!

B: A bit short? (laughter) You're way short!

A: I see. You . . . you find something strange in what I said, is that it?

B: Of course!

A: Sure! Even 1 find it strange!*'' (laughter)

The device whereby the dougende persists on his merry way ("So my
grasp . . . "), ignoring the problems at hand, is also standard. It emphasizes
his comical narrow-mindedness, but also suggests a deliberate ploy, a cow-
ardly attempt to cover his mistakes, boasts, or whatever.

lihe careful planning that goes into xiangsheng routines is evident in the
texture of the dialogues. One device that operates at this level is a kind of
reprise, originally borrowed from opera, in which a phrase from one point
in the dialogue reappears in a later and quite different context, usually in
retaliation against the person who first used it. In the exchange directly
above, for example, we have B saying, '*A bit short? You*re way short!" —
presumably to the embarrassment of A. Later in the same piece, when it
has moved on to an entirely different subject, B asks whether he looks
sufficiently delicate to sing the hmdan opera role. He's afraid he might fall
a bit short in this department. '*A bit short? YouVe ivay short!** snaps A.
In addition to verbatim snatches, the reprise can involve words that are
merely similar. In a piece called "Xiangmian" [Physiognomy], B observes
that if A cannot distinguish B's right hand from his left, 'Tve become a
duck iVi/c/).""* At another point, far too distant to be considered a paral-
lelism, B says that, if A does not admit that all his [B'sj facial features are
on the front of his head, then "I've become a goblin (yuo^/)." Such ritiging
of the same bell at various points in the same piece not only gives the piece
unity hut suggests to the listener the operation of a second-level intelli-
gence, whimsically observing and remembering what goes by.

The audience is tantalized when )okes are set up but not sprung, at least
not immediately. In "Xiju yu fangyan" [Plays and dialects], Hou Baolin
tells how he learned in a Shanghai barbershop the Shanghainese expression

Ibid.

" Hou and Guo, "Xiangmian."

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for "to shampoo**: da ton (homonymous with "beat head" in Mandarin).
Quite purposefully, Hou refrains from immediately crackmg the obvious
joke. While the listener is left to aiuieipate the possibilities — privately, for
the moment — the spoken dialogue proceeds with an innocuous review of
how anything washed {xi) in Shanghainese is da. Handled poorly, such a
delay might frustrate the listener. But Hou's fine sense of timing enhances
the listener's pleasure by drawing him into fuller participation. For several
moments one awaits the re-emergence of head-beating. Then:

A: There I was sitting in front!

B: Right!

A: And he [the barber] was standing behind, pointing at my brain and

asking . . .
B: Asking what?

A: (imitating a Shanghainese accent) ''This. Hit it?" (laughter)
B: Gonna hit you!

A: And I diought to myself: what*s this? I just get a shave and he has to hit

me?

B: You might have asktd him about it!

A: I sure did! I pulled a long face and asked him . . .

B: Yeah?

A: Uh . . . arc you . . . singling me out? (laughter) Or are you gonna hit every-
body here? (laughter)
B: What'd he say?

A: He said, *'Oh yeah, everybody gets hit!** (laughter)

B: Everybody?

A: So I thought, "Well, if everybody gets clobbered ..."

B: Then how about vou?

A: "then . . . well ... 1 guess we shouldn't destroy the custom!" (laughter;

then A, aloud to the barber) "mm . . . mm . . . O.K., clobber!"

(laughter) So he washed my head, applied the blow dryer, held up a

mirror to show me and said, "All set!**
B: All set?

A: ''All set? How come you didn*t hit me?*" (laughter)

B: And what'd he say?
A: 'i did!" (laughter)
B: He did?

A: "How'd you do it so painlessly?" (laughter)"

Hou*s clever pacing elicits about eight good laughs from a single joke.
In xiangsheng jargon this kind of teasing of the audience is called wuhui fa
("the misapprehension method**). As formally defined, it requires that the
audience be privy to both sides of a misunderstanding that the principals
(here» shampooer and shampooee) each see only one side of. The method
is distinguished from the cuofue shi (**the misconception mode**), in which

" Hou and Guo, '*Xiju yu bngyan."

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the audience is kept in the dark until the punchHne Hherates them. For
example, a thiriy-ciRht-vcar-old can have researched the theater for over
fifty years because he's done so at two different periods, one lasting seven
and one eight years — and chooses to multiply rather than add to get the
total.

Puns are perhaps xiangsheug\ best-established and oldest devices. In
studying the origins of the form, the eminent modern linguist Luo Chang-
pei found puns among the earliest examples of proto-xiangsheng in the
Xiantong period of the Tang dynasty (a.d. 860-873).^^ These and most
later puns are based on sound. But some modern examples are based on
opposing the literal versus figurative meanings of interesting terms, such as
the Japanese-invented words for new Western things. In "Plays and Dia-
lects,** Hou Baolin asks his partner to both stand up straight and play the
part of Liang Shanbo, who is lying dead:

B: Huh? Stand up even though I'm dead?

A: Well, since we're doing three-dimensional art here , . . l"three-dimen-
sional** = liti = "standing body"]

The humor of puns such as this is clearly based on the release of tension:
one's thoughts arc abruptly dropped from one plane ("three-dimensional"
connotes new, stylish, foreign, challenging) to another, more mundane one
("standing body" is the simple meaning of the Chinese characters).

While puns are one of the oldest and crudest devices that use this
principle, they are by no means the only one."' In fact, huildme the list-
ener's expectations only to deflate them is an extremely common proce-
dure in all xicvigshcfig. Consider the following piece by Ma |i from the
time of the Cang of Four, in which we are told in bright, rapid tones how
a group of spirited young women set out to caich lish for the State:

A: When they got on board they were full of talk and laughter.

B: Sure! They were happy!

A: And m a moment were shouting and singing.

B: Happy!

A: Everyone together skipping and jumping!
B: Happy!

A: And in the end vomiting and groaning!

B: Happy! (suddenly realizing) Huh? Vomiting?^

^ Luo cites an example ol an entertainer named 1 i Keji, who is saul to have pertormed
before the Xiantong emperor. He "proved," by punnmg on the classics, that the founders of
Confucianism, Buddliism, and Taoism were all women. Luo Changpei, XioHgshengde tatyuan
he finhou nuU He fangxiang (The origins of xiangsheng and die question ot ,\ here we go from
here|, Ih'ijht^ xian^ishcng gijijht xiciozH trk.ut |Spt\ial publication of the Small Group for the
Improvement of Peking xiangshctif^l Peking, November 1V50, p. I.

Indeed, some have argued that every joke is rooted in this principle. See Koestler,
"Humour and Wit," pp. 5-6.

^ Ma Ji and Tang Jiezhong, "Haiyan" |Stormy Petrel] (text by Ma Ji).

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A then tries to save us ivom a starkly un revolutionary conclusion by ex-
planung ihai ii is only natural that a "howling wind and ihrce-fool waves''
should make ''a bunch of girls" nauseous. But his explanation is not as
memorable as his joke, whose joy lies in satirizing excessive fervor for the
State. At a less overt level, it also satirizes the very propaganda point
which the whole piece is ostensibly making: that women can hold up half
the sky."

The listener is misled in the passage above partly by its rhythm. The
pattern of two verbs in A*s lines followed by **Happy!'* in B's beguiles the
listener into feeling that everything is correct and in place. The upset
occasioned by A*s last line is in even clearer relief because it is semantic
only. It does not violate the prevailing rhythm. In the jargon this device, of
which Ma Ji is particularly fond, is known as sanfan sidou ("three turns
and a fourth jolt'*). But it is only one of many ways in which rhythm is
important in xiangsheng. Aside from setting up jokes, rhythmical patterns
can also have a variety of purely esthetic functions. Four- and five-syllable
descriptive phrases can use rhythm as well as rhyme and semantic parallel-
ism. Seven-syllable lines have a lilt that borrows something from both
poetic convention and tongue-twisters. The xiangsheng art caikd guankou
(** talk-strings") involves a rapid-fire recitation of words, something like an

American auctit>nccr's. The esthetic qualities of this and other devices,

numerous though they are, are nearly impossible to translate. Hence we
will pass over them with this unfortunately brief notice.

Hou Baolin has observed that a good Xhui^ishcfi^i, performer must
achieve four general standards: speed without conhision {kuji cr huluii}i)\
slowness w ithout lapse [nuvi cr buduau); doing new pieces without strain
{sheng er bu)m)\ and doing old pieces without unctuousness [sboit er
huyoH).''^ "Speed without contusion" applies to rapid-fire talk such as
guankou. "Slowness vvitlK)ut lapse" retcrs to the sense of timing necessary
to maintain the interest of the audience even durmg pauses. Hou Baolin's
performances do indeed include pauses, sometimes surprisingly long ones.
But they are fascinating. The last two standards refer to the dilenmia that,
with not enough practice, one lacks confidence, while with too much
practice one can lose freshness.

Freshness is especially important in mimicry, one of xiangsheng*^ basic
skills. Contemporary artists imitate the sounds of birds, animals, natural
events, machines, and musical instruments, in addition to people of every

^ One might resist diis condusion at first, but can hardly deny it when a moment later
the young female leader — brave, correct, and exemplary — stands up to save the situation.

"Girls!" she cries, " The struggle has begun! I mean — comrades! — let's all not be afraid of
vumitmg, let's ail concentrate on not vomiting, just look at me . . . 1 . . . " ( I hc sound of
vomiting follows.)

^* Hott Baolin, '*Wo he xiai^sheng" [Ximgihmg and me|, Dagong boo, 15 February
1979. The rhythm and parallelism of Hou*s formula itself are worth noting.

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description. Accuracy is obviously a desideratum, hut so is range. The
sheer novehy of one mouth making an immense variety of noises is an
miportant part of the appeal. Variety m imitating people also implies a
rich social experience, even a kind oi deliberate social research, which is
appealing in somewhat the same way that the panoramic "social novels"
of Li Hanqiu (or of Dickens or Zola) arc: one enjoys the versatility of a
guide who can take one through several layers and into many crannies of
society. Hou Baolin is famous for his imitations of all kinds of regional
and local opera. These often draw laughter, but not always because they
are burlesques. They are sometimes funny because they are in fact ex-
tremely accurate; the listener is delighted that a nonoperatic performer can
suddenly produce such uncannily good imitations — ^let alone that he can
switch among very different types within moments.

Not all xiangsheng humor is rhythmical, light, and fresh. Much of it,
especially before 1949, has been extremely earthy. Jokes sometimes took
the form of crude insults dealt by one performer to the other, or to some
other unfortunate person. Country bumpkins were ridiculed, as were
cripples and the mentally retarded. Speaking of Chinese humor in general,
C. T. Hsia observed in the early 1950s that "the Chinese still retain a
childish delight in taking notice of any physical and moral deviation from
the norm; their fellow creatures, so unfortunate as to be physically de-
formed and disabled, are usually objects of ridicule.""' Though considera-
bly toned down since the revolution, such tendencies have persisted, at
least in xiangsheng. In "Physiognomy" (Hou Baolin and Guo Qiru, 1962),
A makes considerable fun of B's physical abnormalities, real and imagined.
He is bald. Had he never grown hair? But his ears are O.K. — he has one
on each side. And his nose, too — the holes face downward. Or consider
the following satire of Jiang Qing in Ma Ji and Tang Jiezhong's '*Baigujing
xianxingji" [White Bone Demon unmasked, 1976J:

When she gets out of the car she peers east and leers west; trumpeters up
front lead the way; a dog-headed military man clasps her stale feet; a guard
on each side, one male, one female; and she in die middle, three sways per
step! (laughter)

The manner in which limits have been set on the cruder aspects of its
humor has been only part of the complex effort to shape postrevolutionary
xiangsheng.

XIANGSHENG AND THE REVOLUTION

Some historians have traced the roots of xiangsheng as far back as the
Shift [Historical records]; more agree that its precursors were the canjun

" "The Chinese Sense of Humor," Renditions 9 (Spring 1978):50-36.

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plays of Tang and Song times."*" Like xiangsheng, these plays used a dia-
logue structure and punned frequently. They also, it is interesting to note,
were used to reinonstrate with the emperor. I hcre is no good ev idence of a
direct line to modern times, however, and intervening references in Qing
poetry and fiction suggest, if anything, a different tradition.^^ The Tang
and Song examples are all from a very elite level— i.e., ^e imperial court
itself — ^whereas the xiangsheng of the twentieth century is clearly a more
popular form.

The popular tradition includes various lines of masters and disciples,
much as in other popular art forms. When the lines began is unknown, but
they are often traced from the early reign of the Tongjchi emperor of the
Qing (mid-1860s). During the national mourning for the preceding em-
peror, Xianfeng, entertainment was prohibited. Performers from the
theaters, temple-fairs, and other organized amusements had to seek alter-
nate employment. Hou Baolin*s **Gaihang" [Changing jobs, recorded in
1963] is an imaginative burlesque of what it might have been like for
various kinds of entertainers — drum singers, opera singers, and so on —
suddenly to enter the marketplace hawking vegetables in their various
performing styles. What actually happened, however, is that these artists
took to the streets to supply in an informal way what officially was still
proscribed."^ Street-corner entertainers could thus evade suppression, but
they also had to do without the accompaniment of their troupes. These
conditions gave rise to xiiingshcng: one or two people could perform it
anywhere and could change location quickly if necessary.

In the first half of the twentieth century, xiiingsheng was performed at
what Hou Baoliii playfully calls "bare-ground teahouses" ipifigdi
chayuau). IVrtormers would stake out a patch of ground at a market or
entertainment area by carefully sprinkling white sand, in a ritual style said
to date from Song times, to form characters that announced their program.
They then sat facing each other at some distance while their assistants
arranged benches in an oval around the open space between them. Specta-
tors who could not get a seat on the benches stood behind them, forming a
larger oval at the back. When a piece was finished, the performers would

^ See Gu Yewen, Xiangsheng fieshao, ch. 2; and Luo Qiangpei, Xiangshengde laiyuan.

I no and Gu bodi rely on Wang Guowei's You yti In [Quotations on entertainers], in WiWg
Jin^'au xijfishcni; vi<:h!( \ Vhv posrhumously collected works of Mr. Wang Jing'an] (Shanghai:
ShangU'U ymshuguan, 1^40 vol. 45.

^ The term xiangsheng appears to have originated in Song times, aidiough usif^ die
character xiang (or "phenomena" and sheng (or ^\i(c.*' The term seems, at least until mid-
Qing, to have signified I]] soinuls of things in n.uurc or (1) soiiiuls itnit.ited in a lifelike way.
( f. Wu Zimu, Mciii^liiJiiii In |Kphcmcral visions], vol. IV, quoftJ in Gu Yewen, Xiant^shenf^
iwshao, p. 15; Hou Baoim, "Wo he xiangsheng," Dagong hao, 13 February 1979; Cao
Xueqin and Gao Hong lou meng [Dream of the red chamber] (Peking: Renmin wenxue
chubanshe, 1964), chap. 35, p. 416.

^ Hou Baoiin, "Wo he xiangsheng,** Dagong bao^ 13 February 1979.

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rise and the penggendc ["lokc setter") would take a pan from a table
behind him to collect donations. Social pressure obliged the sealed custo-
mers to toss in a few coppers, while the standees could contribute or slip
away as they pleased. I he crowd included no women because the jokes
were considered too coarse for them. If a woman wandered within ear-
shot, the performers would rise in silence and bow, inducing her to leave/*

Xiangsbeng was learned within totalistic master-disciple relationships,
which were bonded by sworn oaths and sometimes by written contracts as
well. Training was strict. Disciples were expected to learn set pieces by
rote. Every gesture, expression, and intonation of the master was copied;
only after leaving one*s master could one exercise creativity.

After the change of power in 1949 xiangsbeng underwent a rapid and
genuine revolution. The new regime set up a Small Group for the Improve-
ment of Xiangsbeng (Beijing xiangsbeng gaijin xiaozu), whose objective
was to rid xiangsbeng of dirty jokes, bad class attitudes, and other ideo-
logical flaws. Cleansed examples of xiangsbeng were immediately put to
use to entertain Chinese troops in the Korean War; and in general the
army played an important part in the rapid spread of xiangsbeng across
China. It was heard on stage, on the radio, and over loudspeakers, while
texts circulated in literary magazines.

One reason for the special emphasis on xiangsbeng was that it was an
oral form and used plain language, it could communicate new ideology
more efficiently than written forms, more so even than opera or other
popular forms. Since it used the Peking dialect, it could also help spread
standard pronunciation. Some argued, moreover, that xiangsbeng repre-
sented the viewpoint of the masses. It was "rich in a history of struggle"
and "already before 1949 had become a powerful weapon for satirizing
the ruling class. Hence, part of the effort expended on xijni^sheng
involved a search for more of this tradition. Young artists were sent out
among the masses everywhere to collect jokes and other material.

The retorm of xiiingshcfiii's content proceeded simultaneously. C ertain
technical improvements were easy, such as excising the linguistic localisms
of the Peking-Tianjin area to make the dialogues more widely understand-
able. The jargon terms liougcnde and lH'H{ii>cndc were changed in many
pieces to more descriptive labels: for example, "A the boaster, B the sprin-
kler of cold water"; or "A the eyeless, B the brainless." ' But in more
substantial matters the interaction of leadership from the top and local

^ Interview with Hou Yaowen, 28 October 1979; Hou Baoiin, ** 'Pingdi chayuan* man-

yi" (Casual recollections of the "haiL -ground teahouses"!, Bei/ing rUtOO [Peking dailyl, 21
October 1 979. Today women and children mingle easily in xiangsheng audiences, though it is
worth noting that there are still no temale pertormcrs.
Gu Yewen, Xiangsheng iieshaOt p. 1
" Ibid., p. 36.

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expression from below created some interesting "dialectics," which in-
cluded some contradictions and ambiguities.

One problem was that prerevolutionary xiangsheng had not, in tact,
been primarily a weapon for satirizing the ruHng class. It did so occasion-
ally, to be sure, but far more often the humor had to do with country
bumpkins and sex. In the 1930s and 1940s, as the division between the
modem. Western-influenced cities and the still-Chinese hinterland became
more obvious and more worrisome, country-bumpkin jokes had been a
useful way to relieve psychological tension. A listener could bolster his
own sense of security by laughing at someone who was doing even worse
than he was at interpreting modernization. Jokes based on this principle
abounded in popular fiction,^' and xiangsheng offered the added attraction
of lively down-country accents, sprinkled with foul language.

But country-bumpkin and sexually suggestive jokes were not, to say the
least, considered appropriate after the revolution. In a 1951 piece that
formed part of the Campaign to Resist America and Aid Korea, A grows
angry at B for persistently misunderstanding the meaning of "Americapho-
bia." He says: "Clearing things up with a guy like you is like wiping your
ass with a watermelon rind."^^ The line was immediately criticized as "an
impure thing" by the Xiangsheng Group of the Nanking Folk Art Work
Troupe. After the early 1950s, the earthy language completely disap-
peared, although hints of it do resurface occasionally. The attack on the
Gang ot hour is allowed to include "Oh, mother!" (a mild form of a
common Chinese oath).'' And Hou Baolin pomrs vcr\ gently to sexual
implications when he insists, in a I96.i piece, that in order to tell his
friend's fortune the friend must provide him with more than a birthdate —
he must tell Hou when he was conceived. Hou gets a laugh from this
impertinent question and two or three more from his suggestions about
how to figure out the answer. The old game of ridiculing someone tor his
countrv accent also reappears in one of the recent attacks on Jiang Qing's
lieutenants.*

The disappearance and reappearance of features such as these are no-
ticed by performers and audiences and accord to some extent with changes
in conscious policy. Yet there are aspects of xiangsheng performance that
are not subject to policy because they are too difficult to control. At the

Perry Link, Mandarm Ducks md Butterfiks (Berkeley: University of California Press,
1981). pp. 317-323.

Li Qun, "/huan/hi kongmeibing" (A specialist in curing Americaphobia], WenhuibaOt

Shanphai. IS March 1951.

Quoted in Ciu Yewen, Xijngsheng liesbao, p. 85.
" Ma Ji and Tang Jiezhong, "Baigujing xianxingji*" [White Bone Demon unmasked].
^ Hou and Guo, "Xiangmian."
" Ma Ji and Xi Jun, "Wutai fenglei" (Tempest onstage].

REVOLUTIONARY XIANGSHENG

simplest level there is the problem of a performer's slipping inadvertently
into old habits. Too great a concentration on the technical aspects of
performance can allow unauthon/ed "unpiirities" to slip by. In one re-
corded instance of Southern comic dialogue (Jiangnan huaji) in the early
1950s, a volley of rhythmical talk ends with "Long live the Republic of
China."*'

Much more difficult to resolve have been problems involving the rhet-
oric of xiangsheng and the subtle question of audience response. Xiang-
sheng is essentially satirical,*' but the questions of whom to satirize, and
how, have been difficult ideological problems. Other postrevolutionary
arts have been asked to praise {gesong) the achievements of the new soci-
ety. But could xiangsheng praise anything? From the Antirightist Cam-
paign of 1957 until the fall of the Gang of Four in 1976, the matter had
been decided from above by a firm policy that it must; the only question
was how. Some performers tried to combine satire and praise in something
called **benevolent admonition" {shanyide guiquan). This was satire
''among the people," an expression in xiangsheng of Mao's notion of
nonantagonistic contradictions. An example, according to Hou Baolin,
would be to make fun of people who disobey traffic rules. But, he adds,
the effort required to keep such jokes both nonantagonistic and funny is
strenuous.^^ The method was not widely adopted.

Xiangsheng performers came up instead with a new, segmented form
that alternated the **flesh and blood" {rouzhongxue) of a piece with
"flowers inserted from outside" {waichjhtta). The flesh and blood was the
main theme and did not have to be funny. The jokes were the inserted
flowers, incidental to the main theme. For example, a piece in praise of
women truck drivers would make fun of various people who doubted that
women could drive trucks.

Yet this is a tricky business. How can one be sure that nobody will be
amused for the wrong reasons.' An experimental piece from the early
195()s tried to praise newspaper-reading by satirizing people who did not
read enough. But when B savs, " I.ilft'riitiofi Daily always has the same old
stuff; it gives me a headache |usl to look at it,""" why docs the audience
laugh? If some laugh with B rather than at him, who is responsible? F.ven
when laughs are "correct," it is not always simple to say what ideas
remain with the audience. Consider the following exchange, also from the
early 1950s. A is telling B about his travels in America:

" Gu Yewen, Xiangsheng fieshaOt p. 46. Since the People's Republic of China had ahvady
been founded, it was an obvious and serious error to wish long life for the Republic of China,

which had been exiled to T.iiw.m.

^ Hou Baolin, "Wo he xiangsheng," Dagong bao. Hong Kong, 15 February 1979.
*'Hou Baolin, "Wo he xiangsheng," Dagong bao. Hong Kong, 16 February 1979.
*^ Li Qun, "Zhuanzhi kongmeibing."

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B: Then why don't you tell me . . . how many !>tories tall is the tallest building
in America?

A: That I can*t even say. All 1 remember is diat one time 1 was in an elevator
for three hours without reaching the top.

B: If that's so, there must have been over two hundred stories!
A: Says who? — ^The elevator workers were on strike.'^^

The joke may be properly revolutionary, but B's original question is not
answered. How high are American skyscrapers? Even today this is one of
the most popular questions about America in China. Raising the question
in a xiangsheng piece implicitly asserts that it is an important, or at least
relevant, question. Though it is implied that skyscrapers fall short of two
hundred stories, how high they aaually are is left to the imagination.

Ambiguities inhere in a performer's role as well as in what he says. When
Hou Baolin declares that fortunetellers, whether rich or poor, Chinese or
Western, are all frauds, he is displaying correa revolutionary antisuper-
stitionism.^^ But who is *'he"? Not Hou Baolin the man, but Hou Baolin the
stage persona who has been saying ludicrous things for several minutes
running. Where does Hou Baolin the man stand? (We can know this
answer, but not from the piece itself.) Listeners' impassions might vary
widely, depending on their individual predilections, in the last analysis, of
course, there is no limit to the possible audience interpretations. Moreover,
even if one postulates that all jokes are properly told and properly interpre-
ted, it can be — and has been — argued that laughter is by its very nature ill
adapted for exttilling the revolution. In the words of one Party critic: "In
this work, certain things that ought to he treated seriously are sullied by the
casual throvvMig together of some slippery and pointless language , . , . the
serious can seem unserious and brmg counterproductive results.'"*^

The difficulty of creating properly revolutionary xij}ii^sl?cni^ did not
become fully apparent until some initial attempts were made. An interest-
ing example of the first workings of the critical process arter 1949 con-
cerns a piece called "Dui duilian" (Matching couplets] by Lao She. (The
eminent novelist had not written xiangsheng before the revolution but,
inspired by the idea of creating a new, healthy, humorous, popular art,
contributed his talents enthusiastically in the early 1950s.) In "Matching
Couplets'* his hero, who is a virtuoso of verbal parallelism as well as a
feisty critic of capitalism, travels to America.^^ As soon as he arrives he
pastes up a couplet:

^ Xi Xiangyuan and Sun Yukai, *'Ruci Meiguo" [Such is Americal, quoted in Gu Yewen,

Xiangshenf^ jieshao, p. lio,

Hou and Guo, "Xiangmian."

"^Gei 'Dui duilian' ti de yijian" [Some opinions on "Matching Couplets"!, in Gu
Yewen, Xiangsheng fieshao, p. 109.

Lao She, "Dui duilian," in Gu Yewen, Xiang$heng fieshao, pp. 88-89.

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REVOLUTIONARY XlANCSHbNC

101

B: And on it I wrote: "I speculate, I get rich, I live it up, my life is good;

pleasure s all I seek."
A: How come everything's **I . . . **?
B: Because the matching line is all **You . . . **
A: And how does that read?

B: The matching lines arc: "You're honest, you're poor, you're hungry, your

life is shot; death serves you right"!
A: (misirncrpreting the ^'you" as referring to himself) Death would serve you

right!

B: I don't mean you! This is about the gap between rich and poor in America!
A: 1 misunderstood. And so what did you write as the crosspiece?
B: The crosspiece was four big characters: **A1I men are equal."

B goes in succession to a dance hall, a hospital, a draft board, the Supreme
Court, the FBI, Hollywood, and a few other places. At each he writes his
satiric parallelisms, cleverly avoiding capture or punishment by the police.
At first appearance, "Matching (Couplets" seems a most successful piece.

But political critics in the early 1950s found some serious complications
in it. First, is it correct to make light of serious topics like the FBI.-' Can a
comic figure, like this couplet-writer, be a model hero? Might ironic state-
ments be taken literally? While the critics were concerned almost exclu-
sively with the piece's possible ideological effects on its audiences, the
immensely complex question of how such effects actually happen was
poorly understood, and I'arty policy left no time lor caretul investigation
of such issues. 1 he result, unfortunately for the artists, was that critics
could only urge avoidance of certain hastily conceived "tendencies." On
most questions the advice amounted to, "Don't go too far this way" but
**I>on*t go too far the other way, either.** Guidelines developed in contra-
dictory pairs. For example:

First of all, xiiirigsheug should be intensely satirical and its talk comicai, full
of raillery and banter, so that it makes people laugh.^

Yet in the case of "Matching Couplets'*:

The audience of xiaugshcng is, tor the most part, the broad masses, and one
must not assume that ail of them are clear about the basic nature of Ameri-
can imperialism and its internal contradictions. There are bound to be mis-
understandings if one uses the satiric mode exclusively. The ironic use of a
string of phrases like **democracy," "freedom of speech,** **due process,"
**$cientific civilization,** **full supply of soldiers,** and **a million crack
troops" is bound to create a certain amount of confusion in the realm of
thought.**'

^ "Gei *Zhuanzhi kongmeibmg' ti dc yijian" [Some opinions on "Luring Americapho-
bia"), in Gu Yewen, Xiangsheng jieshao, p. 78.
'*Gei *Dui duilian' ti de yiiian", p. 109.

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One must, in other words, be satiric, and at the same time he responsi-
ble for the possibihty that one's audience will misunderstand one's satire.
Since the critics did not themselves write xuingsheng, one can only surmise
what they would have taken to be a safely explicit joke. One clue might be
that they criticized the passage quoted above because the couplet "1 specu-
late, I get rich. . . . You're honest, you're poor" does not identify and
'"you" in class terms. ^'I" should be ^'capitalists,'* according to the
criticism.'*' But such a revision would kill the humor on grounds of rhythm
and briskness alone, and would not really aid — ^in fact, through loss of
effectiveness, would impair — ^the ideological goal of the piece.

Another pair of contradictory critical guidelines concerned form.
**Matching Couplets'* was criticized for being too old-fashioned:

Because of its excessive emphasis on the pursuit uf xiangsheng turm, it
shows itself to be insufficiently ideologiail as a work of art and insufficiendy
serious as a political statement.'*'

This critique seems to call for a de-emphasis of form. Yet shortly thereafter
a writer of xtangsheng was told that:

in this piece the author does not employ xiangsheng form very well.^"

One of the more serious complaints about ''Matching Couplets" was
that die funny man running around delivering his barbs and evading the
American police was basically a coward, an A Q:

How incorrect this is! What unhealthy psychology! it gives readers evil and
harmful influences. Today the Chinese people have stood up in the world.
They should not and certainly will not ever bow before the enemy [even
when tricking him]. In order to strengthen patriotic thought and education,
all creative work should correctly describe the industrious and courageous
character of our people.^'

So one should portray strong model charaaers, proudly saying and doing
correct things everywhere, without fear? Apparently not. Three pages later
the same critic says:

The most ridiculous thing is that B, in the status of a mere couplet writer,
can actually run in and out of places like an American draft board, Depart-
ment of Defense, Federal Bureau of Investigaticm, the Voice of America
broadcasting station, and other such spy organizations without suffering the
slightest difficulty or cruelty. The facts of present times have taught us that
there is no limit whatever to the prejudice toward and mistreatment of

^•ibid., p. 113.
Ibid., p. 108.

*° **Gd *Zhuanzlii kongrndbing' d de yijian", pp. 77-78.
" "Gei 'Dui duiUan* ti de yijian**, p. 108.

REVOLUTIONARY XIANGSHENC

103

overseas Chinese by American imperialism. ... So to let B freely and merrily
shout and run about as he likes, right inside the tiger's mouth of American
imperialism, obviously runs the risk of obstructing an understanding of |]ie
true hcts on the part of readers or viewers.^^

Criticisms such as these made it clear that the creators of xiangsheng (and
of other art forms) would have to tread the middle ground of several
dilemmas, never knowing upon which horn of a dilemma the critics would

push them next.

At times, such as during the Cultural Revolution, the middle ground
became so narrow as to resemble a trap: to move in either direction was
wrong, but to stand still was also wrong. Some lively descriptions of this
trap have appeared in xiangsheng themselves, especially m the year follow-
ing the fall of the Gang of Four:

A: If you try to go up you can*t go up, go down you can't go down, live you
can*t live, die you can*t die.

B: What if I'm defiant n>ward her fjiang Qing]?

A: Defiant? She'll charge you as a dyed-in-the-wool Party hater.

B: Then Til keep my distance from her.

A: And she'll charge you with lack of fcelinu tor the Party.

B: I'll be formally correct but stay noncommittal.

A: She'll charge you with an unsteady class standpoint.

B: Then I have to go over to her side!

A: And shell charge you with pressuring her — carrying out counterrevolution!

B: Gee! How*m I supposed to live?^^

in the matter of artistic creation in particular, Jiang Qing is said to have
been ready with complamts like "this work has no depth, and is lackmg in
breadth, and is short on width, and needs more height and is insufticientiy
thick." The piece continues:

A: Whatever you say fin a play] is inadequate.

B: Then alter it as ^e wishes!

A: That's called "perfunctory dabbling**!

B: O.K., so use another play!

A: "Changing the soup without changing the herbs."

B: Then write a whole new one!

A: "Old wine in new bottles."

B: Then you might as well give up!

A: "Wrecking the revolution in literature and art.**^^

Ibid., p. 111.

Ma and Tang, "Baigujing xianxingji."
^Ibid.

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SOME UNDERTONES, CONSCIOUS AND UNCONSCIOUS, IN

XIANGSHENU PERFORMANCE

Without doubt, much of the audience's enjoyment of xiangsheng in
recent years has come from the satire aimed at authority figures. These
figures are foils, often duly labeled as Gang of Four types, but are readily
identifiable with whatever arrogant bureaucrat the individual listener may
have in mind. The unspoken communion between performer and audience
is reinforced by a respect for the performer*s courage and even by an
implicit concern for his welfare. How far will he dare to go? Like any
forbidden fruit, satire of the leadership is all the more delicious precisely
because it is prohibited. A famous piece called ''Kongcheng ji** [Stratagem
of the empty city] begins by titillating the audience with what appears at
first to be a criticism of censorship:

A: I ... I ... I really hke plays!
B: Do you go often?

A: Well, I used to. 1 used to go a lot. But after Liberation, I haven't very much.
B: Huh? What? You haven't got time?

A: No, it's not that. The kind of plays I like . . . don't exist now!
B: What? ! Your kind of plays don't exist now? All kinds of plays are develop-
ing these clays.
A: Oh? My kin J of plays haven't developed.
B: 1 see. What you like is giioijiang.
A: I can't understand gaoqiang.
B: Kunquf

A: Same widi kunqu. And anyway, look how good Fifteen Strings of Cash is
these days! No, that's not the kind of play I mean. My kind of play — it's
going nowhere these d.n s'

B: What's going nowhere— this play of yours?

A: It's . . . loiterers' plays!
B: Oh, treeloading!
A: Right! Right!''

"Loiterers' plays" means hanging around the stage close enough to listen
and get some glimpses without buying a ticket. The humor of the punch-
line here, which can be analyzed as involving a relief of tension, is many-
layered. The Une reveals A as a mere cheapskate rather than the connois-
seur of some obscure form of drama; it also solves the intellectual riddle of
what kind of play has gone nowhere sin(% Liberation; but, perhaps most
importantly, it dispels the specter of open conflict with Party policy.

Another kind of joke, which plays upon the same tension, involves the
"innocent" use of politically charged phrases. In "Random Talk on Plays"

Hou Baolin and Guo Qini, "Kong dieng ji" [Stratagem of the empty dty].

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REVOLUTIONARY XlANGSHLNii

lOS

the word "contradiction" appears this way, as docs the term "reference
material" (the name given to classified material derived from hostile or
neutral sources). A is showing off his ability to act various parts:

A: Have a look at this gesture.

B: O.K.

A: Hm? Whoever brought a camera . . . might take a shot! (laughter) Keep it

as reference material. . . . (laughter)
B: O.K.! Enough, enough!

Why such jokes have been allowed is a fascinating question. Are they not
noticed? Not carefully interpreted? Thought unimportant? In times of po-
litical relaxation they may be considered harmless play. The surprising
thing is that they appeared even during the Cultural Revolution, when
controls forced other art forms into a frightenend uniformity on all politi-
cal questions. In "Gaoyuan caihong" [Rainbow hues on the plateau, early
1970s], the courageous chief of a People's Liberation Army squad is said
to ""lead the way" in several senses:

A: Well, for starters, he leads the way in study. . . .

B: (Translating A*s meaning into political jargon) He conscientiously reads

Marxist-Leninist books and the works of Chairman Mao.
A: He leads the way in job performance.
B: He struggles arduously and bravely assumes great burdens!

A: He leads the way in upholding discipline.

B: He carries out the Three Rules of Discipline and Eight Points for Attention!

A: He leads the way in eating.

B: (pause) Huh? Leads the way in eating?

A: Yes, because many soldiers from the lowlands, vHien they first arrive at die
roof of the world [the Himalayas], are unaccustomed to the rarefied air
and must be trained in how to eat and sleep. . . .

Again wc have an explanation that saves the situation without destroying
enjoyment of the joke. At the end of the piece the "Great Leader" image is
again punctured:

A: When our squad leader's two feet are planted in die earth, his head pierces

the clouds in the sky.
B: How could he be that tall?
A: He was standing on top of the mountain!

Whether or not the implications of jokes like these evade the authorities,
they are certainly not lost on the audience. Such implications are often
precisely what the audience is looking for.

Yet there are many other jokes whose unrevolutionary implications
seem usually to escape everyone — audience, authority, and performer
alike. People know that they are laughing, of course, but may be unaware

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that the humor actually rests on some backward ideas. Attitudes about the
place of women are a good example. The Cultural Revoluiion piece called
"Haiyan" [Stormy PctrelJ tells about a model young woman leader:

A: Stormy Petrel is one of the busiest people in our village. Outsiders who
don't know what's going on find it hard to track her down.

B: That's all right, I'll go find her at home.

A: You won't Hnd her there.

B: ril look for her on the boat.

A: Won't find her.

B: I'll look for her at the brigade.

A: Won't find her.

B: Then where am I going to find her?

A: ril tell you a place where you*ll find her for sure.

B: Where?

A: On the power-line poles!

B: Hm? What does she do on power-line poles?

A: In order to work on the high seas you have to develop strong arms, so
Stormy Petrel spends a lot of time climbing up and down power-line
poles.

It is very likely that the audience follows the political satire here quite
consciously. It is much less likely that they are aware of the antifeminist
implications. The piece continues:

A: She's spirited! Stormy Petrel dares to think and dares to act! Her work style

IS ferocious! She's like a boy — exceptionally strong!
B: Oh!

A: She'll grab a hundred-pound load in her arms and take it away!
B: Wow!

A: ... toss a two-hundred pound load on her shoulder and take it away!
B: Fantastic!

A: Raise up a one-ton load of steel and take it away!
B: Huh? Raise a one-ton load and take it away?

A: She runs the crane!
B: Hah! 1 thought so!

More blatant examples of antifeminism can be found in the attacks
made on Jiang Qing since the fall of the Gang of Four. She is frail, hoarse,
crotchety, and breaks every rule of personal morality: she drinks, gambles,
sleeps late, and puts on airs. While these charges are not necessarily antifem-
inist — in fact are reminiscent in tone of the attacks on corrupt bureaucrats
in the late-Qing "castigatory" novels {(jianze xiaoshuo) — Jiang is also
derogated as *'an old biddy" {lao pozi); she is even made to call herself
diat. She is a ''demon," but with the prefix mi gratuitously added to make
it woman demon.*' She is linked not merely with power-grabbers in
China's past but with female power-grabbers in particular:

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REVOLUTIONARY XIANGSHLNG

107

White Bone Demon

[Jiang QingJ: Comrades, I've been worried these days. Who do you
think should take over the country? I really don't feel
too comfortable going ahead with present plans. Don't
you think women are really better than men?
B: (a righteous member of the masses): You grab position
and snatch power even in your sleep!
WBD: 1 recall that historv telK oi great women who have been
pre-eminent in their lime, such as the impress I ii.
B: Empress Lii was one ot the great unscrupulous careerists
in history!
WBD: Wasn't she a woman?

B: She was indeed.
WBD: Yeah, and then there was Empress Wu Zetian!

B: A woman indeed.
WBD: And Empress Dowager Cixi!

B: A woman indeed.
WBD: And Song Jiang!

B: A woman indeed . . , huh? . . . No! That capitulationist
Song Jiang was a man!
WBD: Men are also bom of US women, aren't they? (laughter) ^*

Other examples of jokes with unprogressive implications concern atti-
tudes about peoples who are less civilized than the Han Chinese. Everyone
in the audience may know that the official policy is to treat all peoples of
the world with equal respect. But this does nor prevent laughter at jokes
based on condescension. Two pieces of Cultural Revolution vintage, both
Ma Ji's, are called "Gaoyuan caihong" [Rainbow hues on the plateau] and
**Youyi song" [In praise of friendship!.' They share the theme of coura-
geous young Chinese battling difficult physical em iroiimenis in strange
cultural contexts. "Rainbow Hues" is set in the snows of the Himalayas
and "In Praise of Friendship" along the Tan-Zam Railway in Fast Africa.
The Tibetans live in the most awkward places, such as lean-tos precari-
ously poised over streams. One has to concentrate intensely to avoid
falling into the water. In Africa the situation is even more surprising.
Standard facilities arc simply lacking, but because of "friendship" one
cannot admit the fact:

B: Which government guesthouse did you stay in?

A: We weren't there as guests, so we didn't stay in a guesthouse.

B: I hen w hat boardinghouse did you live mr

A: We supplied our own board, so we didn't live at a boardinghouse.

All of the examples above arc from Ma and Tang, "Baigujing xianxingji,** and Ma and

Xi, "Wutai fenglei."

*^ "Yousri song" was performed by Ma Ji together with Tang Jiezhong. It was written by
the Amateur Literature and Arts Propaganda Team of the Third Railway Planning Institute of
the Ministry of Communications.

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B: 1 hen where were you received?

A: We came to learn. We didn't need any reception.

B: You . . . well, anyway, you had to live somewhere!

A: Oh, of course! The place we lived in was great: tall mountains at our
backs, the wide sea before our eyes, big hig^-ceilin^ rooms, spongy
carpets, a garden all around, variegated butterflies fluttering in die air,
myriad flowers flaunting their beauty.

B: Oh, I see! You hvcd at n resort [hieshu]]

A: Nt>, except tor coconuts there are no other trees [biede shu\ there.

B: What? I'm talking about the resort you lived in.

A: It was the residence of our survey team.

B: Tell me more about the high-ceilinged rooms.

A: They were tents, pointed at the top, wide at die bottom.

B: And what about the spongy carpets?

A: Grass.

B: And the surrounding flower garden?

A: The scenery was nice aiui the climate agreeable. It was like a big garden.

B: What about the variegated butterflies and the mvnad flowers?

A: The four seasons are all like spring there, and vegetables grow all year
around. When the cabbage wilts the turnip blooms; when the rape wilts
the spinadi blooms; when the cucumber wilts die hot peppers bloom;
when the chives wilt die eggplant blooms. . . .

fi: Huh? What were chives and eg^lants doing there?

A: Our vegetable plot!

There are, to be sure, several ways in which the audience can find this
passage funny. Those politically astute in the requisite way will smile at A's
desire for bourgeois comforts or at his boasts that turn out to be shams.
Perhaps the authorities during the Cultural Revolution counted on such
responses; but they may also have neglected to analyze carefully what un-
derlies certain parts of the humor. In any case, there is little question that the
predominant attitude of die piece assumes Chinese superiority and finds
**people's diplomacy** amusing. At one point the piece makes fun of the
improbable sounds of the Swahili language; at another a Chinese crazily
embraces a smokestack because African friends are so "warm.*'^''

We may delight in xiangsheng's relatively free satire and liberated
thought. In China it is a remarkably democratic art. But if it is free to
express democratic notions it also expresses some **feudal" ones, and for
the same reason: they are popular. In the thirty years since the revolution
the biggest "contradiction" in Chinese society has been not between vari-
ant modem ideoiogies but between traditional attitudes and modern ide-
ologies generally.

This last incident, of the man embracing the smokestack, appears in the "internal
drculation" version of the piece but not on the tape prepared (or export. Apparently its
unfortunate implications were obvious enough that a censor finally noticed them.

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REVOLUTIONARY XIANGSHENG

THE CiENIH AND IHE LAMP

The Chinese Communist Party has attempted to weed out feudal ideas
from xiangsheng. In the past, however, the more tightly that Party critics
have applied controls the more they have inhibited everything — feudalism,
progressivism, and creativity itself. During the Cultural Revolution, ac-
cording to Hou Baolin, no one listened to xiangsheng more than did
Chairman Mao; but in his private viewings every Wednesday and Saturday
night, Mao chose to listen only to traditional pieces from before the
revolution.^"^ The ordinary people had no choice but to Usten to contempo-
rary pieces.

Of course, one reason for the low quality of many pieces is that artistic
reform has been combined with the assertion ot political power, which has
intimidated artists. Sophisticated humor has been discouraged bv the re-
quirement that artists take responsibility for how their work is interpreted.
During the Cultural Revolution, if the authorities determined that the
social effects of one's work were counterrevolutionary, that was automatic
evidence that one's motivation had been counterrevolutionary, too. And
punishments were severe.

But even if fear could be removed as a factor, and the question were
simply how best to combat feudalism, it is doubtful that anyone would
know quite how to instill correct attitudes through a deviLC as tricky as
xiangsheng humor. Those who could come closest would be artists, not
bureaucrats. The false assumption is often made (and not only in China)
that, since humor is a **light'' thing, the principles by which it works and
its relation to thought and action are quite trivial. In fact, the extensive
literature on the psychology of laughter has been unable to analyze its
operations with confidence. But the authorities in China have acted basi-
cally on the theory that any laugh at a bad person is ipso facto a correct
laugh, whatever the reasons for laughing, and that any joke cracked by a
person with correct thoughts ipso facto supports correct thoughts in all its
implications. Judging from the results of die Cultural Revolution years,
one could even ai^e that, the more simplistic political criteria are made to
be, the more likely it is that such criteria will tolerate jokes that more
sophisticated analysis would easily show to be reactionary. So long as you
poke fun at Jiang Qing, it is all right to belittle feminism. So long as you
go to Africa in "friendship,'' it is all right to laugh at how primitive
Africans arc. So long as you explain how wonderful a Party leader is
(overlooking the possibility of irony), it is all right to joke about pulling
his pedestal from beneath him.

It is true that some xiangsheng jokes do genuinely support the Party and
its values and that many others are essentially apolitical. But the creative

^ Interview widi Hou Baolin, 31 October 1979.

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PERRY LINK

genius that goes into a good xufii^shcni^ piece will not confine itself to any
of these categories, any more than Aladdin's genie would retreat mside its
lamp. Theoretically, I suppose, political confinement of xtangsheug could
be achieved, after long and sophisticated research into how xiangsheng
works and after giving writers long and arduous training in the results of
such research. Yet, surely, one would dien discover, with £. B. White, that
**humor can be dissected, as a frog can, but the thing dies in the process. ''^
Perhaps the only real alternative for those who **guide** xiangsheng in
China is to give individual artists a freer rein and to expect that, if the
environment is basically salubrious, their humor will be so too.

Aside from the deliberate attempts made after 1949 to purify xiang-
sheng's content, another revolution — quieter but more durable — ^has taken
place in the way the art is performed. Today the relations of the performer
to his teacher, his materials, and his audience are radically different from
what they were in the 1940s. The master-disciple chains are gone, and with
them the strict and intensive training that used to forge a performer's basic
skills and to give him a certain mystique before the outside world. Today
thousands of amateurs learn by watching television and practicing on their
own. A few are lucky enough to study with an old master, but the relation-
ships are much more relaxed than before. In the past, artistic virtue lay in
the perfection of set traditional pieces; today it is a virtue to present new
material, drawn from the problems of the day. No serious performer today
performs w ithout creating, too. Whereas in 1949 there were onlv about a
hundred xijni^shen^ pieces in circulation, all of them well know n and well
polished, today there are countless pieces at rnaiiv levels of quality.

Yet the modern form has its own intlc xihilities. Pieces for the radio
must fit within the fifteen or twenty minutes allotted. More importantly,
the rapport with the audience — an essential factor in traditional perfor-
mance — has changed in nature and been severely curtailed. Instead of
sitting at opposite ends of a "bare-ground teahouse" with the audience
forming an oval around them, performers today are onstage, higher than
the audience, and side by side. A microphone intervenes, bringing the
performance to a basically anonymous audience, and sometimes to a vast,
unseen radio or television audience. Since both performers are in plain
view at the same time, there is a new problem of how to avoid looking
awkward while one's partner is talking. In the past, performers would
begin with short warm-up pieces, designed to attract an audience and to
get to know them. What was their mood? What pieces would they respond
to? If they responded well, there were more coppers to be had when the
hat was passed. Today the audience pays a set admission charge and sits in

E B. White, "Some Remarics on Humor,** in The Second Tne from the Comer (New
York: Harper, 1935), p. 173.

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REVOLUTIONARY XIANGSHENG

111

rows. There are no warm-up pieces, but a new kind of short piece has been
designed for use as a Western-style encore.

Althougli switches and even complete reversals have marked ihc politi-
cal control of xiiiniisheni^, these changes in its mode ot perforniancc h.ue
been unidirectional. It is improbable that they will ever reverse. Ihe new
xiangsheng medium does, of course, affect the nature of its messages, and
it seems futile to expect a return of the old-style art with its finely wrought
performance style. Hou Baolin has commented, for example, that modern
tape recorders have often been more of a drawback than the aid they were
supposed to be. The machine's ability to repeatedly play back any phrase
has led young artists into thinking that they can always rely on their
recorders for practice; hence they neglect the rigorous ear-training that
was traditionally required of xiangsheng students.^^ Increasingly, people
come to xiangsheng performances to appreciate what its authors have to
say, rather than, as in the past, to appreciate the skill with which a familiar
piece is rendered — ^a shift somewhat like that toward spoken drama
{huaju) in the 1920s. As a more cognitive art, the new xiangsheng will
continue to answer a need that has not, at least for most of the postrevo-
lutionary years, been satisfied by China's more formal media. The scope
within which it operates will, however, be subject to future changes.

^' Hou Baolin, "Wo he xiangsheng," Dagong hao» Hong Kong, 17 February 1979.

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FIVE

Geming Gequ:
Songs for the Education
of the Masses

Isabel K. F, Wong

Songs tor the masses, sometimes called "revolutionary songs" (gelling
gequ), are simple, relatively short tunes with didactic or political texts.
Most of these songs have moderate melodic ranges and have been influ-
enced in style either by Western music or by traditional Chinese folk
music. They arc created to be sung it political rallies or other public
assemblies and by individuals in their more relaxed moments. The texts
are all written in an easily comprehensible vernacular, whether the lan-
guage is terse, hortatory, and sloganlike or more personal and lyrical. The
songs serve various political funaions. Some are meant to arouse patriot-
ism and to motivate a maximum collective effort to build a strong socialist
state; others promote group solidarity or express partisan sentiments. In a
large number of these songs the key words come straight from current
party directives, as published in official newspapers such as the Renmin
ribao [People's daily]. These songs, of course, are meant to familiarize the
masses with government policies and to motivate them to support the
realization of these policies.

Because mass songs are so important in China today, 1 propose to trace
here their origin and development, to investigate their creation and dis-
semination, to consider the political messages of their texts, and, finally, to
examine their musical characteristics.

ANTECEDENTS

The use of music as a social, political, and educational tool, as advo-
cated by Chinese Marxists, is not alien to traditional Chinese thinking. It
has been a serious governmental concern since the time of Confucius, v^ho

112

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SONtiS hOR I Ht tDUCATION OF I Ht MASSES

113

himself edited and wrote music for some three hundred poems mtended as
educational tools.'

Despite the opinion and example of Confucius, however, the Chinese
have not traditionally used songs to help forge ideological bonds among
different groups. In relatively recent times. Hong Xiuquan (1814-1868),
leader of the Taiping Rebellion (1851-1864), rediscovered the idea in the
congregational hymn singing that Protestant missionaries had brought to
China in the nineteenth century.^

In 1847, having heard about Hone's self-assumed missionary aaivities
in Guangxi, 1. J. Roberts (1802—1871), a Baptist minister from Missouri,
invited Hong to his mission in Canton to study Christian doctrine* During
his three-month visit, Hong became acquainted with various features of
the Protestant ritual, such as the recitation of psalms and prayers, the
presentation of sermons, and congregational hymn singing. He later
adopted all these elements in the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom.^

Among the hymns Hong learned was '*01d Hundred,** which he later
used, with a new text, as the state hymn of the Heavenly Kingdom. Its new
title was **Tianchao zanmci ge" [Ode praising the Heavenly Kingdom].
This ode was sung in all rituals and rallies, whose major ingredients Hong
had also borrowed from Protestant rituals.** Many other h]rmns were also
created specifically for these occasions; a few of their texts are still extant.^
Although wc know nothing about their music, except in the case of the
state hymn, we may surmise that some of the hymns also used Protestant
melodies.*' Recently, some folksong texts about the Taiping Rebellion were
collected from oral tradition in the areas once occupied by the rebels, and

' Sima Qian, "Kotigzi Shijia** [Biography of Confucius], in 5^/// [Historical records] fuan

47 IVkinu: /hongluia shujii, 1 9^3), vol. 6, pp. 1914, 19.?5-1938.

Lhnstianiry's influciKc on Hong Xiuquan has been well docuniciut d in Kiipenc P.
Boardman's Christian Influence upon the Ideolojjy of the latpmi^ Rebellion, I85l-I8b4
(Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1952). IR>r the early life of Hung, see T. Hamberg's
rare The Visions of Hung-Siu-tshuen and the Origin of the Kwang-si Insurrection (Hong
Kong: n.p., 1854). Jen Yu-\ven (Jian Youwen) has published n (Chinese translation of Ham-
berg's book that also reprints the Hnglish version iTiUpinj^ lhini>u() chiyi/i [Record ot the
l aiping RevoiutionJ [Peking: ^ enchmg Universit)' Library, 19.i.5j). For turther bibliographi-
cal information on the 1 aipmg Rebellion, see Teng Ssu-yu, Historiography on the Ttuping
Rebetthtt (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1962).

' For a biographical sketch of I. J. Roberts, see Jen Yu-wen, Taiping tianguo dianzhi
tnngkao (Study ot the rituals and ceremonies of the Heavenly Kingdom] (Hong Kong: Meng-
)iu shuwu, 1958], 3:1588-1590.

* Ibid., pp. 1716-1720, 1761-1766, 1832-1854.

^ Some of the song texts are printed in Jen Yu-wen, Tatping tianguo. Most of the
manuscripts of the Taiping song texts are in the British Museum and the Bibliodi^ue

Nationale, Paris.

* According to Jen 'I u-wen, tour l aiping hymns are still included in a modern Hong Kong
hymnal. However, Jen does not make clear whether it is the tunes of diese hymns or their
texts (or both) that derive from the Rebellion. See Jen Yu-wen, Taiping tianguo, p. 1733.

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114

ISABEL K. WONG

these have been puhhslied in China. A comparison of the Taiping song
texts with those of the songs for the masses of the PRC^ reveals that there
are many similarities between the content, style of language, titles, and use
of metaphors of these two bodies of texts. For example, a short text by
Hong Tianguaifu praising his father Hong Xiuquan goes as follows: ''The
Sun King, illuminating all corners of the world."^ Here the employment of
the metaphor ''Sun King," which Hong Xiuquan liked to apply to
himself,' brings to mind numerous songs in which "the sun** is also used as
a metaphor for Mao Zedong, as in the famous "Dongfang hong** [The east
is red]: "The east is red, the sun arises, in China there appears a Mao
Zedong . . .**^^ Further similarities are suggested by a comparison of the
following pairs of song titles:

Titles of Taipittg Songs Titles of Songs for the Masses

"Xiao bei qing cha jing Zun Hu- "Tiao dan cha ye shang Beijing"
ang" [C!!arrying a basket of tea to Peking

[Boiling a cup of tea for Duke Zun]'* (for Chairman Mao)]'"
"Yi Huang pai guang dao wo jia" "Jie fang ]un ye ying dao shan
[Duke Yi is sending officials to my zhuang"

home]" [The Liberation Army is camping in

our village]'*

Given such similarities as these and the fact tliat the Taiping introduced
the practice of congregational hynm singing, it is not unreasonable to view
the Taiping hymns and their use as precedents for the use of mass songs as
a modem political and didactic tool, whether or not a conscious imitation
can be documented.

The Taiping Rebellion, coupled with increasing Western intervention in
China during the 1860s, forced the Qing government to change its foreign

' Luo Ergang, Taiping tianguo shiwenxttan [Selections of poems and song texts of the
Taiping Kingdom] (Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju, 1960); Zhongguu kcxucyuan Jiangsu feng-
yuan wenxiie yanjiusuo, ed., Taiptng ttan^tto geyao quansHoji | Collections of folksong texts
and legends ot the l aiping Kingdom] (Jiangsu: Wenyi chubanshe, 1^60).

' See Luo Ergang, Taiping tiangtui Mtuenxuan, p. 203.

' Ibid., pp. 203-204.

A recording of "The East is Red" is included on China Record M86I, sd. 1» bd. l,and
also on China Record XMlO^l, sd. 1, bd. 1, and sd. 2, bd. 1 (played hy a band).

" See L.uo brgang, luipmg tianguo shiwenxuan, p. 225. Duke Zun, whose name was Li
Wenguang, was <Mie of die commaiiders-iii-duef of the Taiping army. For reference to Duke
Zun and the background of this song text, see Taiping tianguo shiwenxuan. The same song
text is also included in Taiping tianguo geyao qttansuoji, p. 35.

'* A rtconlin^; of this song is included on China Record XM104I, sd. I, bd. 3.

" Duke Yi, whose name was Shi Dakai, was one of the commanders-in-chief of the
Taiping army. For the text of this song, and for references to Duke Yi and the circumstances
under which this song was created, see Luo Ergang, Taiping tianpto shiwenxuan, p. 211.

^* A recording of this song is induded in Chiiu Record M957, sd. 2, bd. 3.

SONGS 1-OR I HH EDUCA 1 ION Oh THE MASSES

lis

policy in 1S61 and to reform some of its institutions. Both of these mea-
sures contributed to the spread of congregational singmg. i'he new foreign
policy, among other things, allowed missionaries to move freely in the
interior of China and thus to introduce congregational hymn singing to
more and more Chinese.'^ At the same time, the German military instruc-
tors hired to help reform the army introduced singing as an instructional
tool. Since then it has been a common army practice to sing songs while
driUingJ''

The first large-scale didactic use of group song singing came in the
modern Chinese school system, established after the 1911 revolution.^^
The first Minister of Education of the Chinese Republic, Cai Yuanpei, held
that a complete modern education must include esthetics; hence, under his
direction, classroom music was formally incorporated into the Chinese
school curriculum." Cai, a scholar thoroughly trained in the traditional
Chinese classics, had also studied in Germany. There he acquired a taste
for Western music and came to regard Chinese musico-theatricals and
other popular forms of musical entertainment as vulgar and simple-
minded. Obviously they were not appropriate for classroom use.''' Cai and
other authorities encouraged the development of a modem style of Chinese

In 1877, at die Shanghai CSktisdan Conference, it was rqx>rted diat sixty-three catego-
ries of hymn books had been published in Oiinese; among these hynms were several of the

first to be composed by a Chinese, pastor Xi. Another report shows that a hymnal, compiled
by Jonathan I.ees under the ae^is of the Church of England, had a circulation of rwenrv-three
thousand. See Kenneth S. Latourette, A History of Christian Missions in China (New York:
Macmillan, 1929), pp. 416-434, 495-641.

For the texts of some early army songs, see Yuan Shikai, Xmfian Itqun bm^Hie lucm
(Records of curriculum for the newly established armyl (facsimile rcprjuhution of die 1898
ed., Yonphczhcn: Wcnhai chubanshe, 1966), pp. ?1()-^IS. Ihcre is little documentation
available about the singmg of marching songs. I he practice seems to have been well estab-
lished by the 1910$. In the ciry of Canton, where my father was living at that period, it was
common for soldiers to march around town singing "new style" songs. "New style" here
describes songs similar to those sung in the new-style schools established by foreigners.

An imperial decree issued in 1904 rent.itively proposed the inclusion of singing sessions
in the curriculum ot the national primary and middle schools. I he decree praised the foreign
use of music in classrooms for its recreational and didactic value. However, the edict contin-
ues, given the lack of suitable songs, Chinese schools should teach their students to chant
simple didactic poems or nursery rhymes. See Toga Akigoro, ed., jindai Zhottggtw jiaoyushi
ziliao [Materials on the history of education in modern China] (Taiwan: Wenhai chubanshe,
1972), 1:284,

" For an English translation of Cat's writings on his philosophy of education, see 1 eng
Ssu-yQ and John K. Fairfoank, China's Respwse to the West: A Documentary Survey, 1839-
1923 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1954), pp. 234-239. For the contents of
Cai's new educational policy for the Chinese republic, see Toga, Jindai Zhongguo, 2:571-
574.

Cai Yuanpei, "Wenhua jiaoyu buyao wangliao meiyu" [Esthetic education should not

be foisotten in cultural education], in Lou Zikuang, ed., Minsu congshu [Folklore series]
(Taiwan: 1969), 101:43-44.

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116

ISABEL K. F. WONG

school songs, based upon the music that foreign missionaries and educa-
tors had introduced to Chma.

The melodies of this new type of tune were usually simple and short. At
first they were based on the Western diatonic scale, but soon pentatonic
melodies became predominant.^ For several generations, this type of west-
ernized song has been the major ingredient in the musical diet of Chinese
students.

Since these songs were intended to promote social and political change,
their texts naturally reflect the general national concerns of the time, such
as patriotism, self-discipline, self-reliance, morality, social reform based on
Western liberal ideals, and civic-mindedness. Soon diese songs were sung
not only in schools but also at other civic gatherings. Before long they had
become a genuine form of Chinese music suitable for the expression of
modem China's national aspirations.

Around the 1920s, Chinese composers who had received Western-style
music training either at home or abroad began to make their presence felt
in educated circles. Three of the most influential new-style composers were
Y. R. Chao (Zhao Yuanren, 1892-1982), Huang Zi (1904-1938), and
Sitson Ma (Ma Sicong, b. 1913). All three were trained in the West and all
wrote a quantity of songs carrying didactic messages. Ma pioneered the
idea of incorporating the style of folksong into that of didactic songs,
while Chao, a linguist as well as a composer, sought to continue the
traditional C^hinese approach to song writing by composmg melodies that
reflected the contours of the Hnguistic tones of the song-texts. Chao's
approach, however, was not widely followed."'

THE DEVELOPMENT OE SONGS EOR I HE MASSES

No sooner had the republican government been established than war-
lords began lighting each other in much of China. Japanese aggression also

For a discussion of some of the music in this period and for transcriptions of some of
the songs, see Yang Schuman (^hao, "T\\ t ntieth Cenrurv Chinese Solo Songs: A Historical
and Analytic Study ot Selected Chmese Solo Songs Composed or Arranged by Chinese Com-
posers of the 1920s to the Present," 2 vols, (unpublished Ph.D. dissertati(Mi« George Peabody
College of Teachers, 1973).

For a discussion of the relationship between the contours of linguistic tones and
melodies in several traditional Chinese genres, see Y. R. Chao. "Tone, Intonation, Singing,
Chanting, Recitation, lonal Composition, and Atonal Composition in Chinese," in Morris
Halle, ed.. For Roman Jak<^son (The Hague: Mouton, 1956), pp. 52-59. Chao admitted
that he was an exception among contemporary Chinese composers in allowing the contours
of linguistic tones to influence his melodies (see For Roman Jakobson, pp. 58-59). For
further discussion on song writing by Chao, sec his iiuroiliiction to his Xhifhi f^eji [Tunes for
new poems] (Shanghai: Shangwu, 1928; reprint ed., l aibei: Shangwu, 1960), pp. 1—16. For
the most recent re-evaluation of Chao's contribution to modem Chinese music, see Wang
Yuru, "Tantan Zhao Yuanren zuopinzhongde jige wend* [A discussion of some questions in
Y. R. Chao's works], Rettmin ymyue [People's music], 1979, 5:12-16.

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SONGS hOR I Ht tDUCATlON Oh 1 Hh MASSLb

117

yi gcng yi dian yuc zheng !>heng, wo nu ren, ya ya de wei.

qi wo Zhong^guo ren, er shi yi tiao cheng ye idii, zhan Shan-dong

zhan Qmg-dao ya, chu mu jing xin, ya ya de wei,

guo min kuai zheng.

EXAMPLE 1. Wu geng diao (Five watches]

Translation: The first watch strikes one, / the moon has just risen. / The dwarf
slaves / ya-ya-de-wei / have insulted us Chinese, / presented the Twenty-one De-
mands, / revealed naked aggression, / have taken Shandong and occupied Qing-
dao. / How frightening and worrisome. / ya-ya-de-wei / Countrymen, hurry to
combat them.

increased. In 1914 Japan seized Qiiigdao from Cierman control. In the
following year, Japan forced C hina to accept the Twenty-one Demands,
which severely infringed upon C hmcse sovereignty. The Chniese expressed
their outrage m many songs of protest; these songs, which circulated
widely, may be regarded as the mimediate predecessors of contemporary
songs for the masses.

While some of the protest songs were set to indigenous folk tunes,
possibly out of nationalism, on the whole their style of music resembled
that of the contemporary didactic songs. What made the protest songs
different was their message. While the didactic songs usually stressed
general principles of good citizenship, the protest songs focused on cur-
rent political issues and events. Present-day songs for the masses have
preserved this focus. Example 1 is one of the earliest extant protest
songs; it is set to a folk tune called '^Wu geng diao" [Five watches]. The
text, written anonymously, expresses frustration and anger over the
Twenty-one Demands.'^

On May 4, 1919, the intellectual and political ferment that had been
brewing for some time culminated in a nationwide series of student dem-
onstrations. The immediate provocation was the decision of the Versailles
Peace Conference to award the German-leased territory in Shandong prov-
ince to Japan. Immediately, songs attacking the Versailles decision or

^ The musical transcription in example one is h.istJ mi rfie rraiiscriprioti in number
notation in Liang Mao, "Wusi shiqi de gongnong ycnung gcqu ' [Workers' anJ peasants'
revolutionary songs in the May Fourth period], Renmitt yinyue, 1979, 4:7-9.

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ISABEL K. F. WONG

calling for a boycott on Japanese goods began to circulate orally and in the
pages ot sonic newspapers.'^

By this time, many intellectuals, disillusioned by both national and
international events and inspired by the success of the Russian Revolu-
tion, had turned tovsrard Russia and Marxism-Leninism for a solution to
China's problems. Some activists began to organize Marxist study
groups; one of the earliest was formed around 1919 by teachers and
students of Peking University. In January 1921, members of this group
went to the Northern Terminal (the Chang Xin Dian) of the Peking-
Shanghai Railroad in Peking to introduce the railroad workers to Marx-
ist politics. They established an adult school and a recreational center
for the workers. The activists had learned from Lenin's writings that the
arts could serve a political function in a socialist state and from their
own participation in demonstrations that songs could effectively unite a
body of people. Thus they made a practice of teaching the workers
some of die protest songs and also created new political songs for them
to sing. With these early efforts, the modern Chinese song for the
masses was bom.''*

One of the earliest extant songs from the Northern Terminal is the
**Wuyi jinian ge" [May First memorial song]. Set to a classical qitr' tune
called "Mcihua sannong" [Three variations on the theme of plum blos-
soms], the text calls for the workers to unite and to eliminate their oppres-
sors. The railroad workers sang this song in their May Day demonstra-
tion — the first ever held in China.'*

In 1922, a year after the establishment of the Chinese C^onniuinisi I'arty,
Liu Shaoqi and his colleagues began their organizational work among the
mine and railroad workers in jiangxi province, in an area known as An-
viian l.ukuang [Anyuan Road Mine]. These activists also used songs; Liu
himself is said to have written the text of a song for the workers' recre-
ational center (Example 2).^^

This song was sung during the Anyuan strike, which was organi/.cd by
Liu in September 1922 and which was the first workers' strike ui China.

" Ibid., pp. 8-9.

^* Ibid., pp. 11-12; see also Shai^ai yinyue xueyuan xiandai Zhongguo yinyue shiliao

zhengli yanjiuzu (Sh.inf;hai ("onserv.itory Contemporar>' Chinese Music Histon,' iMitdriil
Board; hereafter, Shanghai yinyue xueyuan), "Wusi dao diyici guonei geming . . . gongnong
geming gequ" [Revolutionary songs for peasants and workers from May Fourth to the first
dvU revolution], Renmin yinyue, 1961, 7—8:3.

A qin is a seven-stringed zither traditionally associated with the literati. R. H. van Gulik
translates the word as '*lute'' in his The Lore of the Chinese Lute (Tokyo: Sophia University,
1940).

Liang Mao, "Wusi shiqi," pp. 1 1-12.
^ Shanghai yinyue xueyuan, *Wusi dao," p. 3. The musical transcripti<Hi is based on the
transaiption in number notation found in Liang Mao, "Wusi shiqi," pp. 11-12.

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SONGS FOR THE EDUCATION OF THE MAbStb

119

bci ren wu ru

ya po de

f' r

wei wo lao

gong, shi jie xi wo men dang chuang zau.

l> III. ^ 1 ' ' '1

^ 1, H 1/ li i ^ V V\\ li

ya po xi wo men dang xiao diu, chuang zao shi jie chu ya po, tuan jie wo lao gong.

EXAMPi.F 2. Anyuan Liikuaiig gongren julcbu bugc [Anyuan Road Mine
Workers' Recreational Club Soiigl

Translation: We workers are the oppressed people. / We will create a new
world, / eliminate oppression, / create a new world . . . / Workers unite.

The song later became the strike anthem for other worker groups.^** No
fewer than three versions of the song exist today."''

In early February 1923, a Peking-Shanghai Railroad strike was brutally
suppressed by the authorities; hundreds ot participants were killed. Shortly
after, an anonymous song called ^'l endou ge" |Song of struggle] appeared
(E.xample ^). Its rousing text, focused on the most sensiti\e political issue
of the day, made it immediately popular, and it was stmg in all the subse-
quent strikes in support of the Pekmg-Shanghai Railroad workers.'"

Meanwhile, m 1921 Peng Pai had begun a concerted effort to organize
the peasants in the Hailufeng district of Cluangdong province. Peng, him-
self a music lover, left behind a large number ot songs, in which he had
set texts about land reform to tunes from Hailufeng's rich folksong
tradition."

In 1923 the "Internationale" was introduced to China by Qu Qiubai,
who published his translation in the progressive journal Xin qingnian
[New youth], which he edited. The words of the "Internationale" were
written in 1871 by Eugene Pottier, who had participated in the Paris
Commune of that year. In 1888 Pierre Degeyter set the text to music.^^
The song became closely identified with the European labor movement of
the 1890s and was sung by the workers in their demonstrations and
strikes. Recommended by Lenin, the song was introduced to Russia, where
it became the battle hymn of the Bolshevik revolution. In 1920 the newly

^ Liang Mao, "Wusi shiqi," pp. 11-12.

The second version of this song can be tound in i.iang Mao, "Wusi shiqi." pp. 12—13;
for the third version, see Geming gequ dajia chang Itlverybody sing revolutionary songs]
(Peking: Yinyue chubanshe, 1965) 2:190-191. Here the music is attributed to Shi Lemeng.

Liang Mao, ''Wusi shiqi," pp. 13-14.

Reportedly, many of the songs arranged by Peng Pai are still sung in the Hailufeng

district. Sec ibid., p. 15.

Nikolai Lcnin, "tugene Fottier," Renmin yinync, 1962, 12:7 (translated into Chinese
from Lenin's Russian text, which first appeared in Pravda» 3 January 1913).

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120

ISABEL K. F. WONG

^^^^^^^^

jun shou zhong tie, gong cen

jing shang xuc.

r ■ 1 r r n^^^^M^

tou ke duan, zhi ke lie, fen dou iing shen.

bu xiao mie.

f rii II

lao ku de qun zhoqg men, kiiai kiiai qi lai tuan jie.

EXAMPi.F 'S. Fcndou gc jSoiig of striipple]

Translation: Iron rods held in the warlords' hands, / blood Hows from the
workers' necks. / Heads may roll, / bodies may break, / the spirit of struggle
never ceases. / People oppressed by hardship, / rise up and unite.

established French Communist Party chose it as its official song.^^ Because
of the historical and political significance of die ^^Internationale,'* its intro-
duction to China in 1923 has come to be regarded as the signal of China's
entrance into the world Communist movement.^^

Many Russian songs were introduced to China in the 1920s and quickly
gained currency in Marxist circles; some remained popular into the 1950s.
One of these tunes, called in Chinese "Zuguo jinxing qu'* [March of the
motherland] (Example 4), inspired a host of Chinese songs for the masses.
Like their model, these all begin with an upbeat from the fifth degree to
the first degree of the scale and then proceed in a stately, moderate }
meter/^ The style of the Russian tune itself shows a marked similarity to
the "Internationale.'*

Another wave of protest son^s was inspired by the May Thiriieth Inci-
dent of 1925, when police in Shanghai's International Settlement opened
fire on students and workers who were demonstrating against the occupa-
tion of Chinese territory hv imperialist powers. The police's killing of
several demonstrators touched ott a series of workers' strikes in Shanghai,
Canton, and Hong Kong, in all of which protest songs were sung about
the incident to rally public outrage.^^

By this time propagandists had firmK grasped the power of songs per-
formed cn masse. In 1926 the Chinese Conununist Party published a song

" Ibid. " Liang Mao, "Wusi shiqi," pp. 13-14.

" The notation is based on my own memory of the song. For a summary review of
Russian influence on Chinese mass songs, see Xiang Yu, "Sulian geming gequ dui woguo
geming gequde yingxiang" (The influence of Soviet revolutionary songs on our revolutionary
songs], Remnin yinyue, 1957, 11:2—3, 6.

" Shanghai yinyue xueyuan, '*Wusi dao,** p. 5.

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IZl

■r. — r

wo men zu guu duo inu liao kuu guang da, ta you wu shu tian ye he sen

lin, women md you jian guo bie de guo jia, ke yi she ying zi you bu

EXAMPLE 4. Zuguo jinxing qu [March of the motherland]

Translation: My motherland, how great and spacious. / She has enormous

fields and countless forests. / 1 have not seen any other country of die world in

which the people can breathe so freely.

handbook called Geming ge // [CAjllcction of songs for the revolution!,
edited by Li Qiushi. included in the handbook were all the ihen-eurreiit
protest songs, scores of Russian songs with Chinese texts, and the Inter-
nationale." In his preface the editor stressed the songs' importance as
historical documents of modem Chinese nationalism and as expressions of
the spirit of revolution. Li called for a systematic promotion of songs to
foment revolution. To facilitate circulation of these songs, the editor pro-
vided musical notation in addition to the song texts. The Western staff is
used, with a simplified form of notation that uses Arabic numerals to
represent the pitches of the diatonic scale, a system that was and still is
popularly used in handbooks of Chinese music.^^

The value of songs as propaganda was also recognized by Mao Zedong
himself. In July 1924 he included singing sessions in his thirteen-week
seminar on the organization of a peasant movement in Canton. Report-
edly, among the songs sung there were some of those arranged by Peng
Pai, who had used the folk tunes of Guangdong province. After Mao
established a revolutionary base in the Jinggang Mountains in Jiangxi, in
1927, he instituted the use of songs to win the goodwill and eoopcrntion
of the local people. Songs also served to help train the cadres of the Fourth
Army of the Chinese Workers' and Peasants' Red Army, which he formed
with Zhu De in

Mao demonstrated his belief that song is part of the political didactic
machine ni 1929 in his draft for the resolution of the (nirian Conference.
He called for the formal uiclusion of song teaching in the training program
for cadres and soldiers and for the establishment of a committee to pro-

" ibid. ^ Ibid.

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ISABEL K. F. WONG

diicc appropriate songs. ''^ However, due to the lack of personnel trained in
nuisic, very few original songs were composed during the jiangxi period;
instead, suitable new texts were written for folk tunes from the Jiaiigxi
region, tunes from old protest songs, and Russian tunes brought back to
China by returning cadres. Few of the songs produced in this period are
accessible to this author, but one may gain some idea about their political
themes from their titles. In the following list of some of these titles one
may detea the beginning of a tendency, reinforced later, to use western-
ized tunes for texts dealing with general dogma and folk tunes for texts
dealing with rural life.^

Song titles of the Jiangxi Period

a. Titles of songs whose tunes were adapted from Russian sources
**Wuyi douzheng ge" [May First struggle song]

**Zhongguo gongnong hongjun ge" [Songs of the Chinese Workers'

and Peasants' Red Army)
"Gongchanzhuyi jinxing qu" [March of Chinese Communism]

b. Titles of songs whose tunes were adapted from folk tunes
"Gongnong baodong ge" [Songs of workers* and peasants* revolt]
**Shi song lang dang hongjun ge" (Song in ten stanzas: on sending

my lover to join the Red Army]
'"Chun geng yundong ge** [Spring ploughing song]

The 1930s saw the beginning of a new development in song writing, led
by a group of young composers associated with the National Shanghai
Conservatory of Music and by composers working for Shanghai's newly
developed popular musical stage and film industry. The movement was
initially an artistic experiment that aspired to unite Western and Chinese
elements in a new form of Chinese song. As Sino-Japanese relations contin-
ued to deteriorate and Chinese nationalistic feeling became more intense,
composers quickly exploited this newly developed medium to expess their
patriotism. One of the young composers most active in this development
was Nie Fr (1912-1935).

Originally self-taught, Nie Er had later studied violin and composition
with Russian instructors at the Shanghai Conservatory. He had left his
native Yunnan province for Shanghai in the early 1930s and there he eked
out a precarious living by writing music for films and the stage. Some of
his songs for films became widely know^i. In 1932 he was befriended by
the leftist writer Tian Han, at whose instigation he and two other young
musicians, Ren Guang and Zhang Shu, formed the Sulian zhi youshe
(Society ot Friends of the Soviet Union) to study contemporary Russian

Renmin yinyue, 1961, 1:12.
Xiang Yu, **Sulian geming," p. 6.

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SONCiS FOR THE EDUCATION OF THt MASSES

123

EXAMPLE 5. Dalu ge [The great road]

Translation: Hcng yue ke he ke ke he ke, / hcng yue he ke heng he ke hang. /
Let us unite and work together, he he ke, / use our great strength. / Push the
shovel, forward march / he ke hang. /

music and the Marxist esthetic principle of social realism. Through this
connection Nie was introduced to the Russian propaganda films of the
1930s, which were occasionally shown among leftist circles in Shanghai.
Nie was particularly impressed by how the Russians used music to en-
hance the film's narrative and later endeavored to emulate the technique.
Russian influence is plainly discernible in the songs Nie composed after
1932. '*Dalu ge" [The great road] (Example 5), which Nie composed for a
film of the same name, plainly echoes "The Song of the Volga Boatmen.**^'

In 1933 Nie joined the Communist Party and began to dedicate a hirge
amount of his time to composing patriotic songs aimed against the Japa-
nese, a campaign initiated by composers based in Shanghai. In 1 934 Nie
wrote nearly forty such songs to texts by Tian Han, who excelled in
writing rousing texts laden with poUtical slogans. As Nie's tunes allowed
the lyrics to be clearly enunciated, they were particularly suitable for use in
mass movements. In 1935 Nie wrote "Yiyongjun jinxing qu" [March of
the volunteers] (Example 6) for a patriotic film called Fengyun ermi [Chil-
dren of the storm].

The short declamatory phrases of the song and its marchlike rhythm
Htrcd the ronsing and dehant text pcrtcctly, and the song so captured the
national anti-Japanese sentiment that it was soon sung all over C^hina. In
19^7 it was chosen as the official song of the Communist New Fourth
Army, an association that prompted (^uang Kai-shek's govcrnnient lo
censor the song severely. When the People's Republic was established in
1949 "March of the Volunteers" was chosen as the national anthem. ^-

Another well-known composer who also joined the Conuuuiust Party
and also wrote songs attacking Japan was Xian Xinghai (1905-1945).

Ht)ng Qiii, "Nie Er nianbiao chugao" (First dr.aft of a Nie Er chronology), Retintin
yinym; 1455, S:5-9. For rhc music of "Dalu ge," see Historical Revolutionary Songs (Pe-
king: Foreign Languages I'ress, 1^71), pp. 9—10.

Hong Qiu, -Nie Er."

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ISABtL K. 1-. WONG

-j^— •

qi lai, bu yuan zuo nu li de

-> #-

ren men, ba w u men dc xue ruo, zhu cheng wo men

xin de chang cbeng.

fXAMPii 6. Yiyoiiglun jinxing qu [March of rhc volunteers]
I ruHsiattun: Arise all those who will not be enslaved. / Use our own bodies, /
build a new and strong Gieat Wall.

Unlike Nie, Xian had received a thorough training in composition, having
studied at the Paris Conservatoire from 1929 to 1935 under the direction
of Paul Dukas and Vincent d*Indy. Xian composed large-scale orchestral
works as well as songs. He returned to Shanghai penniless in 1935 and
earned a meager salary by writing songs for films. He was soon recruited
by Tian Han to join the campaign for anti-Japanese songs as a composer,
singer, and conductor. In 1936 alone, Xian poured out some three hun-
dred patriotic songs, some of which, he claimed, took only five or six
minutes to write.'*^

Traveling all over China to present the anti-Japanese songs, Xian en-
countered a great variety of regional folk and popular musical styles, some
of which he used in his own music. For example, in '*Ding ying shang"
[Grin and bear it], w hose title came from a popular Cantonese expression,
Xian used Cantonese folk tunes to set a text that includes much Cantonese
slang. In '*Pao guan dong" [Traveling to east of the Pass], he imitated the
style of beggar's jingle called shulaihao that is widely heard in North
China and that is sung to the accompaniment of a pair of wooden or bone
clappers.'*''

By uniting Western and Chinese elements, Nie and Xian brought the
medium of mass songs to its maturity and, through their association with
the anti-japanese campaign, gave it also the indelible stamp of nationalism.

The \X ar ot Resistance against japan that broke out in 1^.37 stimulated
a further outpouring of songs with patriotic themes. Composers of all
ideological persuasions joined forces to create songs supporting the war.
Through being sung in war Hlms many of these songs became very popular
with general audiences, thus constituting a true mass medmm.

The next stage of development took place in Yan'an, where Mao and
his comrades had settled in 1935 after the historic Long March. When the

Xian Xinghai, "Xian Xinghai zhaji" (Xian Xinghai's notebook], Remnm yinyuet 1955,
8:13.
^ Ibid.

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SONGS hOR I Ht hDUCA I ION Oh I Ht MAbShS

war broke out, writers, students, and composers headed en masse for
Yan'an. The schools that were set up for cadres formally included training
in the arts for propaganda use in the curriculuiii.^^

In 1939 Xian Xinghai also came to "I'an an, to head the music division
of the Lu Xun Academy of Art and Literature. While there Xian w rote the
celebrated "Huanghe dahechang" [Yellow River cantata] for mixed chorus
and for an orchestra combining Western and Chinese instruments. The
cantata had its premiere in Yan'an in 1940.^ During the Cultural Revolu-
tion this work was transcribed and revised (not by Xian himself), to be-
come the internationally known '^Gangqin xiezouqu *Huanghe* ** [Yellow
River piano concerto]; there is no mention of Xian's name in this revised
version/^ Historically and artistically, the *'Yellow River Cantata** is a
milestone in contemporary Chinese music, it is by far the most convincing
synthesis of Western and Chinese musical idioms. In a single work it unites
such diverse techniques and elements as, for example, the Chinese folk
antiphonal singing style called duikou chang, the Chinese fisherman's
work song called haozi, traditional Chinese percussive patterns and instru-
mentation, Hugo Wolf's declamatory recitative style (adapted to the Chi-
nese language), the traditional Western contrapuntal technique of choral
writing, and, finally, the atmospheric orchestral effects of the French Im-
pressionistic school/*^ Among the pieces in this cantata, the song
Huanghe chuanfu qu" [Song of the Yellow River boatmen] is frequently
sung as a mass song and has had a profound influence on mass songs by
later composers (Example 7).

Besides his large-scale works, Xian continued to write short songs in
support of the war. Of these "Dadao diren houfang qu" (Go to the en-
emy's rear] is still popular today (Example 8)/'' Xian died of tuberculosis
in a Moscow hospital in 1941, but his influence on the younger generation
of composers can still be seen today.

Since composers could nor meet the great demand for songs to be used
as a propaganda tool in Yan'an, folic tunes were fitted to local vernacular

See Tian Jiagu, ed. K.ihi;:Ikv! ujoxu zji Shjnhci f Resistance education in North
^Vi.i,in\i| I F {.iiikow; Mingru chubansh«, 193ii; tacsimile reprint. Hong Kong: Yuandong tu>
shu, 1968), p. M).

^ Xian Xinghai, ''Xian Xinghai,'' pp. 14-15.

Xian's "Ydlow River Cantata" was turned into a piano concerto by the pianist Yin
Chengzhong. See Yin Chengzhong, "How the Piano Concerto *Ydlow River* Was Com-
posed,' Chinese l itcrjtun- 11 1 9~-4 1 ()2.

Xian discusses in detail his compositional prt)cedure in his preface to the "Yellow River
Cantata" (published with the cantata posthumously). See Xian Xinghai, Huanghe dahechang
[Yellow River cantata], ed. Huang Luofeng, (Shanghai: Dushu chubanshe, 1947); see also
Xian, "Xian Xinghai," pp. 14-15.

** See Historical Revolutionary Songs, pp. 16-17.

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ISABEL K. F. WONG

(solo) wu yuli na, {chorus j zhc tnaii iian, (solo) po lang a, {chorus) gao ru shan, (solo) leng ^eng a.

(c<rorws)pu shang lian («oto) lang hua a, (ctoms) da jin diuan hai yue

EXAMl'LH 7. HiKinghc chuaritu qu [Song ot the ^ clio\\ Kivcr bt)atiiicnl
Translation: {suluj Dark clouds / {chorus} cover tlic bky, . {solo} great waves /

{chorus) as high as mountains, / {solo) cold wind / {chorus) cuts our faces. / (50/0)

The water / {chorus) rushes into the cabin, hai yue.

texts. In 1942 Mao's celebrated Yan'an "Talks** called for, among other
things, the creation of an art medium that would be truly representative of
the broad masses of peasants, workers, and soldiers. In response, music
personnel in Yan'an assembled a massive collection of folksongs from the
northwestern region near Yan*an. One of the songs in this collection was
**Xiu jin bian" [A golden embroidered sampler] (Example 9), which was
set to a new text anonymously. The song was extremely popular until in
the Cultural Revolution, it, along with many other folk tunes, was de-
clared politically unfit. Recently, however, this song was revived and has
been republished with the addition of a third stanza commemorating Pre-
mier Zhou Enlai.^^

Another folk idiom that was used for propaganda during the Yaii'an
period and that had great influence on later songs for the masses is the
type of folk theater called yangge. Its performance involves songs, dances,
and dialogue and is accompanied by an assortment of percussion instru-
ments such as drums, gongs, and cymbals. The music of yangge has a
lively rhythm, and its melodies are conceived within the Re mode of the
diatonic scale. The percussion accompaniment consists of variations on
this basic rhythm: J J~J J~J . In 1^43 the revised "new Xiingge"^

became the chief cultural and political expression ot the an an govern-
ment and as such influenced other aspects of musical production.^'

One of the composers who arranged nuisic for the new ytinggc and who
also composed songs for the masses was Ma Ke, a chemistry student who
turned composer with Xian Xinghai's encouragement. One of Ma's most
celebrated theatrical works was his setting for the original version of the
musical drama Bai mao nii [White-haired girl). In 1948, while workmg

' The music of "Xiu jiii bian" is transcribed here from number notation in Remnht
ymyue, 1977, 1:52-5 ^ .ind footnote.

*' Vol further information on the yangge movement, see David Holm's article in this
volume (Part 1); see also David L. Holm, "Report on an Experiment with Yangge Dance and
Music," CHiNOPERL Papers no. 7 (1977), pp. 92-105.

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127

dao di ren hou fang qu, ba gui » gsui chu jing, dao di rni

hou Cang qu, ba gui zi gan chu jitig

KXAMP1.1-: 8. Dadao tliren houtang qu [(io to the enemy's rear]
Translation: Go to the enemy's rear, , chase the aggressors away. / Go to the
enemy's rear, / chase the aggressors away.

among the laborers in northeastern C;hina, Ma wrote the internationally
known "Zamen gongren you liliang" ;\\'c workers have strength] (Hx-
aniple 10). I his nispired song expressed his admiration tor the proletarian
class and his faith in a socialist future for China.

**Wc Workers Have Strength*' quickly caught on nationally among stu-
dents and workers. Part of the song is strikingly similar to Xian's "Song of
the Yellow River Boatmen" (see Example 7), while its rhythm calls to
mind the percussion beat ot yjfii^i^c. Ma's works were censored during the
nine years between 1966 and 1975, and he died in 1976.'* His works were
revived after the fall of the Gang of Four.

DEVELOPMENTS AFTER 1949

Since Liberation, literally thousands of songs for the masses have been
produced. However, the medium has shown litde musical development
since it was brought to its maturity by Xian and Nie and consolidated by
Ma Ke and his contemporaries. Later development has been concerned
with the ideological refinement of the songs* texts, categorization of the
songs according to their political functions and messages, and the perfec-
tion of the mechanisms for controlling all song production.

Recently in the thaw following the Cultural Revolution, there have been
tentative signs of renewed openness to musical experimentation. One sign
was the article in Renmin yinyue [People's music] that discussed the merits
of Y. R. Chao's compositions and his views on music (see above)."
Another sign was a reprinting of Mao's talk to a group of music personnel
in 1956, in which he encouraged them to develop a new style of Chinese

Qu Wei, "Shenqie huainian Ma Ke tongzhi" [Deeply remember comrade Ma Ke],
Rettmht yinyue, 1977, 4:24-26; see also Qu Wei, "Gequ Bai mao m de dansheng" (The

birth of the opera White-Haired Ctrl], Renmin yinyue, 1977, 2:12-18. The music for the
song "Zamen gongren you liiiang" is based on the number notation in Renmin yinyue, 1977,

" See Note 21.

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ISABEL K. F. WONG

zhcng yuc li nao yuan xiao,
er yueli gnadiun ieng.

jin bian xiu kai
)in bian xiu de

liao,
hong,

hao fu qi.
lao ying xkNig.
hao wmg K.

EXAMPLE 9. Xiu jin bian [A golden embroidered sampler]
IninsLition: In the first month we celebrate New Year. l et ns embroider in
the golden sampler the image of (Chairman Mao. our superb leader. , In the
second month Sprmg wmd blowing, / let us eiubroider in a golden sampler the
image of our savior Mao Zedong. / First embroider the image of Chairman
Mao, / who is the savior of the people. / Second embroider the image of the
commander-in-chief, / who b the hero of our revolution. / Third embroider the
image of Premier Zhou, / who is die people*s good premier.

music that would fuse Western and Chinese elements/^ Since this article
appeared on the front page of the People's Daily, its political significance
cannot be ignored; whether it will have a practical impact on musical
composition, however, remains to be seen.

Production and Dissemiftation of Songs for the Masses
The tunes of songs for the masses come from two main sources: indi-
viduals and folksongs. Two categories of individual composers are recog-
nized: professionals (zhuanye) and amateurs {yeyu). The professionals are
members of cither the National Association of Chinese Music Personnel
(established 1949; name changed to Chinese Musicians' Association in
1959) or the CJiinese Association of C>)mposers (established 1954). These
groups are supported by the state to produce, teach, and perform music
and to conduct research. Some professional composers have received for-
mal training in composition, while others gained recognition through avo-
cational activities and were then appointed to be members of either asso-

^ Mao Zedong, **Tong yinyue gongzuozhede tanhua" [Talks with music personnel],
Renmiti ribao, 9 September 1979, p. 1.

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129

za men gong ren you li liang ke, za men gong ren you li Uaag, mei tian
mei ri gong mo mang ke, niei turn mei ri gong zuo mang, gai cheog liao gao lou da xia

xiu qi Itao tie lu mei kuang, gai zao de shi jie bian ya ma bian liao yang ai

kel kai dong liao |i qi hu long lung di xiangi ju qi liao tie chu xiangding dang
zao cbeng liao li chu hao shengchan zao cheng liao qiang pao song qian ^g

ai ke ai lie ai va

EXAMPLE 10. Zamen gongren you liliang [We work ers have strength]
Trimstation: We workers have strength. / We workers have strength. / We
work hard day and night. / We work hard day and night. / We build tall build-
ings and big niatisions. / We repair railroads and dig in the mines. / We change
the surface ot the earth. / Turn on the engine, / raise the hammer, / manufacture
the plough, / produce guns and cannons.

ciation. During the early days of the People's Republic, the number of
professional composers was not great; though their number grew as more
people joined their ranks, it is still small.

From the early 1960s the government has made a consistent effort to
encourage amateurs — i.e., factory workers, peasants, soldiers, and stu-
dents — ^to create their own songs. The two basic methods of supplying
motivation have been fudao (**to assist and coach") And zhenggepingzhuang
huodong (*'to initiate song-writing competitions'*). Conducted nationvnde,
both activities have been jointly sponsored by the Composers' Association
anJ h\ the Ministry of Culttire and are enforced at the provincial and local
level by cultural bureaus and units.''

Assistance and coaching are provided for musically inclined amateurs in
the form of short courses in tune writing and text setting. Conducted by
professional composers, music teachers, or cadres conversant with the rud»
iments of music, these after-work classes emphasize practical instruction

Intortnation gleaned Iroin the tollowing issues of Rcnmin yinyue: 1962, 10:21-23;
1963, 4:12; 1964, 11-12:28-29; 1965, 3:27; 1965, 4:8-10; 1966, 2:2-12, 21, 27.

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ISAbhL K. K WONG

and teach the simplified "number notation" to facilitate the writing down
of compositions. Puhlic forums on the technKjues of composition are also
held by professional composers, and articles by professionals on how to
write songs frequently appear in popular magazines, journals, and news-
papers. Further encouragement is provided by periodic song-writing com-
petitions held at the national or local level. The winning songs are fre-
quently published and broadcast or sung in mass rallies. Reports by
amateur composers of their procedures or experiences in composing ap-
pear in papers and magazines.^^

The policy of motivating the people to write their own music is but one
practical application of Mao*s ''mass line** theory. Mao maintained that, if
they were encouraged to participate in creative activities, the masses could
articulate their views. The authorities and the professionals, thus ac-
quainted with the people's preferences, could imitate them and shape artis-
tic media that the people would welcome. On a more practical level,
however, one of the factors responsible for official mobilizing of the
masses to write songs may have been the fact that there were simply not
enough new songs produced by the small number of professionals to fulfill
the state's propaganda needs, a situation that resulted in a mass-produc-
tion method of song composition. This method was evident in the field of
literature as well/'

Another realization of Mao's "mass line" theory was the sending of
professional composers periodically to labor among the workers and peas-
ants, so that the composers could develop a realistic understanding of the
workers' needs and could accurately reflect these needs in their composi-
tions. During the (ailtural Revolution this policy was carried to an
extreme. Professionals, composers included, were subjected to intense re-
education; many were censured or silenced. Those who were allowed to
remain in their posts as composers were organized into teams to compose
collectively, and no work was considered complete until it was duly re-
vised in the light of mass opinion. Further, collectively composed works

** Information about two wetl-known amateur song writers, Slii Zhangyuan and Li You-
yuan (1903-1955) is provided respectively in Renmin ymyue, 1961, 1:5, and Renmin yinyMt
1978, l:34-.)5. Li Youyuan was the composer o( the famous song **Dongfiing hong" [The

east is red|. Other amateurs who have won prizes in song-writing competitions were some-
times invited to wrirc ihout their experiences. Stc, tor example. 1 lu Wenjin, "Zai qunzhong
douzhengzhong chuang/uo" [Composing amidst mass struggle], Renmin yinyue, 1965, 5:10;
and Yao Yuxing, **Wo dui yeyu yinyue chuangzuode tihui" [My experience as an amateur
composer], Renmin yinyue, 1 966, 2:28-30.

On rnctiees of collective composing, see Renmin yinyue, 1962. 10:9, 21-23; Renmin
yinMtc. i'^h^, 1:2-^; and Renmin vinxnc, 1964, II — 12:22-2^. On collective efforts in
literature, sec Lars Ragvald, "Professionalism and Amateur lendencies in Fost-revolutionary
Chinese Literature,** in Goran Malmqvist, ed.. Modem Chinese Uterahtre and Its Socio!
Context [Stoclcholm, 1977}, pp. 152-179.

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131

were never attributed to the individuals involved, but bore the name of the
composing team, which was usually that of a work unit attached to a
factory or commune. The theory was that such a collectivized creative
process would totally submerge tiic individual's efforts into a democratic
pool of mass opinion. Thus the gap between professionals and the masses
would be eliminated, and the resultant creative product would truly be a
work of the masses.

The notion of the collective creative process was widely publicized and
highly romanticized during the Cultural Revolution. The idea, of course,
was that music should not be a purely mental product, composed only by
trained specialists sitting at pianos, but a spontaneous, direct, and collec-
tively created outgrowth of physical labor. Practice, however, differed
from theory, according to some of the professional composers who took
part in the process. Except for such politically important showpieces as the
model operas, for which careful planning was done, most of the so-called
collectivized compositions were nothing but haphazard pastiches of unre-
lated musical phrases or ideas that individuals had suggested at random,
frequently during working periods. Some stringent guidelines apparendy
circulated that prescribed the use of certain melodic or rhythmic figures for
works of a certain type. After the Cultural Revolution, this form of ran-
dom, collectivized composition was evidently discontinued, and the meth-
ods used prior to the Cultural Revolution have rcturned.^'^

The repertoire of songs for the masses also includes a large number of
songs whose tunes were derived from folk tunes. In 1955, immediately
following Mao's decision to accelerate agricultural collectivization, com-
posers, music researchers, and music instructors were exhorted to go the
the countryside. There they were to show their support for Mao's decision
by working with the peasants and by collecting folksongs for use in propa-
ganda in support of the policy. The justification for such a massive collect-
ing project, according to Zhou Yang, then the Vice-Minister of ("ulture,
was to "scientifically preserve and svstcnuuically organize this national
treasure [i.e., folksongs], to revise {giiizhcni^) and enrich iiLii^oni^] their
contents in order to make them a fitting medium to entertain the people
and to educate them at the same time."^'* The theory behind such rhetoric,
once again, is the "mass line" concept of "from the masses, to the
masses." Thousands of folksongs were accordingly collected, and to their

^' For information about the actual practice ot collective cumpobition durinj^ the e.ultural
Revolution, see Lu Yang, "Yinyue diuangzuo suibi" [Notes on the process of music composi-
tion], Renmitt yitiyue, 1977, 7:29—31.

Sic Minjian yinyue yanjiushi (Folk Musk Research Section), "Min'ge gaihian zongjie"
fSiimni.irv ot tolk'^oni; revision], in 7honi;vani; yinyue xueyuan minzu vinviu- \,ui|uisu()
^Central Music Institute, National Music Research Department;, ed., Minzu yinyue yaHjiu
tunwenfi [Monograph on folk music studies] (Peking: Yinyue chubanshe, 1956) 1:102.

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"revised and enriched" tunes were set new words that bore pohtical mes-
sages in a hinguagc style closely akin to that of the original folksongs.""
Special nienlion should he made ot a large group of songs whose tunes
have been borrowed from the folk or popular music of Chma's many
minority ethnic groups and set to Chinese texts. The use of Chinese impHes
that these songs are aimed at the majority Han race; one may speculate
that even the tunes themselves have been sinicized and modernized.

Direction and Supervision of Song Production
The political themes to be propagandized through cultural products,
songs included, are dictated by the most important decision-making body
of the Chinese Communist Party, the Central Committee. Its decisions are
carried out and supervised by the Ministry of Culture with the help of the
state-owned mass media, various local ctiltural institutions, and the asso-
ciations for music personnel and composers. It was the Party's Central
Committee, for example, that in 1955-1956 ordered the collection of
folksongs as part of the intensified collectivization of agriculture.

Another case of the Party's direction of cultural production began at the
Tenth Plenum of the Eighth Central Committee, which convened in Sep-
tember 1962. At that meeeting, Mao Zedong attacked modern revisionism
and proclaimed an intensification of class struggle. In the following month,
the editors of the t)fficial publication Gequ [SongJ called for the writing of
militant songs reflectmg the spirit of class struggle, suggesting that a
marchlike rhythm would be appropriate. Gequ subsequently published
hundreds of songs whose texts and music followed these guidelines. ' In
1970 Mao issued another statement, this time denouncing the Cambodian
coup and attacking the U.S. Shortly after, a song appeared with a text
derived directly from Mao's statement. Called "Quan shijie renmin yiding
shengli" [People of the entire world will be triumphant] (Example 11), the
song was constantly sung and broadcast m China in the early 197()s.'''
Political regulation is not restricted to newly composed songs. Some-
times old favorites are revived for use in a new political context. In the
autumn of 1971, for example, the "Internationale" and another old stan-
dard, "San da jilu baxiang zhuyi** [The three rules of discipline and eight
points for attention] were repopularized to be sung in rallies criticizing lin
Biao."

These and many other examples illustrate the close control exercised
over China's mass media, in which songs play an integral part. Indeed, a

IbiJ.. pp. 102-120.
*' Rt fimni \in\ut\ 1^62, 10:4.

1 am indebted to Anders Hansson for this information. During the early iy7(Js, Mr.
Hansson served as a cultural attache to die Swedish Embassy in Peking
" As above.

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133

dung teng chui, zhan gu lei, xian zai shi jie shangj jiu jing shui pa shui

bu shi ren Run pa Md di ershi Mei di pa ren min.

EXAMPLE 1 1 . Quan sbijie renmin yiding shengli [People of the entire worid
will be triumphant]

Translation: The east wind is blowing, / the battle drum is souiulcd. In the
world todav, who is afraid of whom? / It is not the people who arc afraid of the
American imperiaHsts. / It is the American miperialists who are afraid of the
people.

chronological survey of popular songs would form an accurate chronicle
of political events in the People's Republic of China.

Songs are disseminated and popularized in a variety of ways: by publi-
cation in newspapers and in st)ng handbooks with number notation, both
of which are distributed widelv bv governmental organizations; by broad-
casting; or by being taught in schools, factories, or communes. Since teach-
ing songs directly is by far the most effective method, it deserves special
emphasis.

Songs are taught and sung regularly in schools and universities.''^ In tacto-
ries and in the countryside, where it is less convenient to have singing ses-
sions, music specialists periodically visit to teach songs. In addition, state-
sponsored art troupes are sent to perform for the people and to teach them
songs. Many of the songs prepared for the peasants are **revi5ed and en-
riched** folksongs. The peasants are instructed to sing these new folksongs
in a *'modem and scientific way," that is, to sing without the special vocal
ornaments associated with certain kinds of folksongs. The preferred vocal
style was an open-throated manner based on Western voice production.^^

During periods of intense political campaigning, song rallies are held in
public places. Sometimes the masses are exhorted to master a specific
group of songs by a certain date as part of their political lesson for a
special campaign.^^ Cadres, students, or other music personnel conduct
informal song-teaching sessions anywhere people gather: in the cinema

^ This observation is based on my own experiences as a student in China during the
1950s and on my interviews with Chinese students now studying in this country. Paul Clark
also reports that, when he was a student at Peking University in the 1970s, songs were taught

to the universir\- students every Wednesday afternoon.

** Information gleaned from various issues of Remmn ytnyuc.

^ For example, in 1961 Lin Biao called for the masses to learn ten songs as part of a
political lesson. See Renmin yinyue, 1961, 1:12.

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ISABtL K. t. WONG

before or after the show, on street corners, and in local recreational
centers. In rural areas, songs are taught m the Held, in communes, or at
agricultural fairs.*"

Categorization of Songs according to Content
The messages of the song texts fall into the following broad categories,
some of which may overlap.

Songs of Praise and Exaltation, These include songs praising leaders,
the motherland, the Party and other important institutions, model heroes,
and socialism in general. By far the greatest number of these songs praise
Mao Zedong; the best-known is perhaps "Dongfang hong** [The east is
red]. A group of the songs in honor of Mao consists of songs set to Mao's
poems as well as to quotations from his writings and utterances. During
the Cultural Revolution many such songs were published, but they are
now seldom sung.''** More recently, songs have appeared praising Zhou
Enlai, Hua Guofeng, and Deng Xiaoping. Among the favorite topics for
songs in praise of the country's institutions are the Chinese Communist
Party and the heroism of the People's Liberation Army. Ihe model hero
most venerated in song is Lei Feng; a typical song about him is "Xuexi Lei

Feng nayaii}^" f Learn from Lei Feng]. This category of song oV>viously
serves the general political goals of raising the consciousness of the masses,
of providing them with a firm national identity, and of indicating to them
acceptable social and political behavior. Songs about the nation and about
Party dogma tend to become perennial favorites; other, more topical songs
gain and lose in popularity according to the poHtical fashions of the time
or to the fortunes of the individuals involved.

Songs for Special Croups or Work Units. These are songs micndcd to
promote group solidarity among soldiers, students, children, workers, and
peasants. Their texts deal with activities associated with each group: songs
for workers have titles such as **We Workers Have Iron Shoulders'* and "I
Dedicate Crude Oil to My Motherland**; songs for peasants are called
**The New Faces of the Countryside** or ''Sing of the Agricultural Mechan-
ization.** In general, songs aimed at peasants derive their tunes from folk
music, while those aimed at soldiers, students, and workers have more
westernized tunes. But exceptions occur, and groups often sing each
other's songs.

Songs that Announce Major Policy Decisions. These songs began to
appear with increasing frequency during the Cultural Revolution. Their

Information leaned from various issues of Renmin yinyue: 1963, 3:9; 1963, 6:8.
** A foct reported to me by Chinese students now studying in this country.

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SONGS FOR THE EDUCATION OF THE MASSES

135

texts incorporate the key terms of the pohcy decisions announced m the
People's Daily and other official Party organs. A typical song is "Heartily
Hail the Party's Eleventh Congress," which appeared when the Party vali-
dated } Ilia CiLiofeng's chairmanship in 1977. Because of the topicality of
these songs, their circulation is often short-lived.

Songs of Criticism. 1 hcse songs denounce failures, errors, deviations,
crimes, and shortcomings. Such criticisms arc always quite specific and are
frequently directed against individuals. For example, the second purge of
Deng Xiaoping inspired a song called "Raising the Iron Fist." Its text runs
as follows:

The banners are waving,

The wind nnd thunder are roaring.

The People's Army is marching heroically.

l et us fight against the Rightist- Revisionists' attempt to reverse the verdict.

Raising the iron fist of revolution,

Angrily and loudly denounce Deng Xiaoping.

Resolutely eliminate feudalism, capitalism, and revisionism.

Whoever wishes for restoration is r^ressing.

We will fight against him with determination.

A song of 1977, "Smashing the Gang of Four into Pieces," has the follow-
ing lines:

The conspiracy of Wang, Zhang, Jiang, and Yao to usurp the

Party leadership is despicahle.
We arc united around the Party.

The crimes committed by the Gang of Four must be avenged.

Sofigs concerning l-orcii^n Affairs. This category includes two types of
songs. The first attacks imperialism. Before China's rapprochement with
the United States, a large number of these songs concerned examples of
American aggression, from the Korean War to the Cuban missile crisis, the
U-2 Incident, and finally the Vietnam War and the invasion of Cambodia.

The second type of song .Thoiit forcigti .iff.iirs expresses solnl.uity with
socialist and other nations friendly to China. Some of the titles are almost
identical, although the tunes are not. For example, in the 1950s there was
a song called "Moscow-Peking," in the 1960s, when Albania was a close
ally of China, there was one called "Tirana-Peking,** and today there is a
song called "Bucharest-Peking.**

Songs about Taiwan, These songs either show solidarity with the
people of Taiwan or express China's determination to rejoin Taiwan to the
modierland. The songs bear titles such as "Taiwan tongbao shi womende

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136

ISABEL K. F. WONG

qin gurDu" [The people of Taiwan arc our own flesh and bloodj and
"Women yiding yao shouhui Taiwan" [We must have Taiwan backj.

Musical Form

Mass songs are usually sung without instrumental accompaniment.
When instruments are available, however — in a classroom, a radio broad-
casting studio, or a w ell -organized poUtical rally, for example — these songs
may be accompanied by a piano, an organ, an accordion, or even a full
orchestra or band. Sometimes the instrumental accompaniment simply du-
plicates the voice line; at other times, if the composer so directs or if the
musicians have the necessary competence, simple chords may be added.

Some composers, particularly the professionals, devise melodies that
clearly imply a harmonic support. Such musically educated elites may
insist that harmonic accompaniment is a sign of modernity. Nonetheless,
the concept of functional harmony and the sound of functional chord
progressions remain relatively unfamiliar, and hence unimportant, to the
Chinese populace. The goverment apparently agrees; most of the official
song handbooks 1 have surveyed suggest no accompaniment beyond the
occasional direction to "use drum or cymbal accompaniment here." All
the handbooks I have examined use number notation.

Musically, therefore, the mass songs can be characterized as simple
tunes with no obligatory accompaniment. The following remarks on some
characteristic melodies and rhythms of the mass songs are based on my
examination of some five hundred songs.^'

Some general preliminary remarks are in order. First, regardless of their
origin, the tunes fall into two major categories: those inspired by Western
concepts of tonality and those inspired by indigenous Chinese folk tunes.
Secondly, all the songs are diatonic. Some employ the heptatonic scale and
others the hexatonic or pentatonic scales; the latter are always in anhemi-
tonic form (that it, there are no semitone steps in the scale). Finally, most
of the songs are constructed in the major mode, but other modal configu-
rations are also present. For example, many songs are based on the sol and
re modes (which resemble the Mixolydian and Dorian modes respectively),
while a few songs are based on the minor mode.

As a rule, no modulation occurs in any of the songs examined, and

The musical examples discussed and dted in diis section come from various Chinese
song handbooks and lecocdings diat are readily available in this country. The handbooks I

have ex imined include: Gequ [Songs] (Peking: Yinyue chubanshe, 1952-1954, 1965-1966,
1969); fiefatigjun gequ ji (Song collection of the People's Liberation Armyl Shanghai: Wen-
hufa chubanshe, n.d.); Gemtng gequ daiia chang [Let's sing revolutionary songs j (Peking:
Yinyue diubanshe, 1964); Zhaudi xin'ge [New songs from the battlefield) — among many
others too numerous to list here.

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SONGS FOR THt tDUCA TION OF THE MASStS

137

f ''-^ -rjir r 1 11 ' ^ iTtT'iti'iri
4' I ' iil^i i 'il-rr

EXAMPLE 12. Shehuizhuyi jinxing qu [March of socialism] {no text)

chromatic alteration of pitch is rare. The handbooks indicate that the
tessituras of the songs generally lie in the octave between B below middle
C and B above middle C, in other words, in a range comfortable for the
average singer, but the range may vary from an interval of a tenth to one
of a thirteenth.

These songs are usually not very long, containing only six to eight
phrases that divide into two halves. Many songs have more than one verse,
all of which, however, are sung to the same tune, i.e., the songs are
strophic.

Westernized Songs. The melodic tendencies of these songs usually
result from an implied harmony. The basic implied chords are the tonic

and dominant triads of the major scale and, to a lesser extent, of the minor
scale. Needless to say, such a limited use of underlying harmony produces
a simple harmonic rhythm, and the melodic motion that derives from it is
often predictable and stereotyped. This predictability is well illustrated in
Example 12, "Shehuizhuyi jinxing qu" [March of socialism]. The phrases
nf this song arc determined by the text lines, and each piirase ends cither
on the tonic or on the dominant note. The melody is, by and large, the
tonic triad, i.e., C— E— G m the key of C.

Like hundreds of songs of this type, this one begins on the upbeat with
a dotted rhythmic figure 'J on the dominant and tonic piichcs.

One possible source of this motif could be the beginning of the "Interna-
tionale." The Chinese national anthem, "March of the Volunteers," also
uses a similar motif, although the initial skip of a fourth may simply
come from the linguistic tones of the words "qi lat** (see Example 6).

This type of westernized tune typically has a marchlike rhythm that is

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ISABEL K. I-. WONG

huo hong dc

•

^ ^

yjng

gai

ig shcng qi,

nf=^

wo men dc qing

— P

chun

Stti nwi li. qing nian men man jie lin, qing man men man jie jin.

EXAMPLE 13. Cicming qingnian jitixiiig qu fMarch of revolutionary youthsj
Translation: Like the early mornmg red sun, / our youth is beautitul. / Young
people dosdy unite, / young people closely unite.

squarely aligned with the regular beats of the duple meter. The
relentless JT^J J J J J | J. J y | rhythm is only occasionally inter-
rupted and modified by syncopation (the asterisk over measure 13 of
Example 12 indicates one such use of syncopation).

The texts, as usual, are written in an easily comprehensible vernacular
and generally in prose, as in Example 12. Some texts resemble verse in
having a regular number of words in each line, and some even attempt to
use rhyme. The ratio of one or two pitches to a syllable results in a
predominantly syllabic and declamatory texture.

All the melodic, rhythmic, and textual factors described above contri-
bute to produce a song style totally devoid of complexity. This simplicity
is, of course, intentional; it obeys Mao's decree, in his Yan'an "Talks,"
that mass songs can rclav their political messages best by staymg simple,
plain, and easy to memon/c.

Examples 13 and 14 arc both in the major mode, the hrst usmg the
hexatonic scale (with omission of either the fourth or the seventh degree)
and the second the pentatonic scale. These two types are very common
among westernized songs.

Sofigs Modeled after Folk iitucs. In this group of songs, the Western
concept of tonality does not apply. I he folksong styles most commonly
found in this category come from the northwest and north-central regions.
The tunes of North Shaanxi characteristically use the sol mode (i.e., the
Mixolydian mode). Frequently, the overall melodic tendency is a descend-
ing contour from the central pitch **sol" down to the **do" below, and
then down to the low central pitch ''sol." Example 15, which is modeled
after a folk tune of North Shaanxi, shows just such a descending melodic
contour. However, in three instances (bracketed in the score), this descend-
ing contour is inverted and ascends to the high central pitch ''sol" instead
of falling to the low central pitch ''sol." This inversion may be an attempt
to tone-paint the text; the first bracketed phrase translates as **Collectiv-

uopynghiea inaiuiial

SONCjS i-OR THE EDUCATION Oh I HE MASSES

139

gong ten jic |i yinggu

tou, gen zhao Mao Ze dong wo men zou, zou,

zou. xiong huai zu guo, .fongyanshi jie, gemiitgde lushaog juebuting

liu.

EXAMPLE 14. Gongren jieji goutou ying [Members of the working dass are
tough]

Translatiott: The working class is tough, / following Mao Zedong. / March,

mnrch. march. Embracing our mother in our hearts, / cast our glances at the
worldwide horizon. / March without delay along the road of revolution.

izeci economy shimmering with golden beams" ami the second as "The
hearts of the Commune members turn toward the Communist Partv."

Also characteristic of North Shaanxi's folksongs is the use ot ilie Aeo-
lian mode (A to a of the white keys of the piano; transposed to E in this
example as in Example 16). The basic outline of this example is marked in
the score as A and B. A appears twice at the beginning; the rest of the tune
is made up of B and its modification, labeled B'.

Many of the tunes derived from folksongs use pentatonic scales. Several
varieties of the pentatonic mode are found, the most common construction
being do— re— fa-sol— la, as used in Example 17. The melody of this song is
punctuated by the use of a pair of motives, marked a and b in the scores.
The lively rhythm of this song brings to mind the rhythmic pattern of the
yangge folk theater.

Example 18 is a song in the Mixolydian mode (G to g of the white keys
on the piano; transposed to D in this example), which is commonly found
among the folksongs of Gansu province. The melodic outline of this song,
a pair of conjunct tetrachords, characterizes this type of folk tune in the D
pentatonic mode. Also characteristic is the use of vocables.

Two final examples will illustrate the wide variety of pentatonic modes
used in Chinese folksongs. Both Examples 19 and 20 derive from folk-
songs of Hunan province. The scale used in Example 19 is do— re- me—
sol— la, while that used in Example 20 is la— do— re— mi— sol.

SUMMARY

The antecedents of contemporary songs for the masses were the polit-
ico-religious songs introduced by HongXiuquan, the leader of the Tai ping

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ISABtL K. h. WONG

kui hua xiang zhao hong tai

yang.

she yuan xin xiang gong chan

dang, ten min gong she

ji ti |ing ji shan jin

guang.

yin ba zi

wo zai za men

m ill ii jj ii rTT^j-m

pin xia zhong nong shou.

jte ji dou zheng yong bu wang^

jie 'ji dou zheng yong bu wang.

Mao zhu XI

1 III I 1 1 n. M.Tfr-f -f 1 1 Til

hng dao wo men

-T

xiang qian

jin

she yuan xin xiang gong dian dang.

EXAMPLE 15. Sheyuan xin xiang Ciongchan dang [Commune members' hearts
turn toward the Communist party]

Translation: As the sunflower faces toward the sun, / commune members'
hearts turn toward the Communist Party. / The benefits of people's communes
are bountiful, shimmering with golden beams of collectivized economy. / We
poor peasants Hrmly grasp the seal of authority. / Never will we foi^et class
struggle. / Chairman Maci leads us marching forward. / Commune members*
hearts turn toward the Communist Party.

Rebellion who adopted some tunes and the practice of congregational
hymn singing from Western missionaries. Since then, the medium has gone
through a series of transformations. Immediately after the 1911 National-
ist Revolution, songs carrying didactic messages and modeled after the
music of Protestant hymns were used to help foster a new national ideol-
ogy. Such songs have become a major component in the musical experi-
ence of the modern Chinese. Some Chinese composers, motivated perhaps
by a sense of nationalism, sought to include Chinese idioms in these didac-
tic songs. Several lines of experimentation developed, but most approaches
involved the use of melodies derived from folksongs or based upon the
contours of the linguistic tones of the song-texts; the latter approach, used
by very few composers, represents the continuation of a traditional tech-
nique of song composition.

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141

gao lou wanzhang

puig

qi, pan long wo hu

ding, bUn qu de tai yang

gap shan

hong you hong, bian qu de tai yang hong you

Mao Ze dong, Mao Ze dong, zamende

ling xiu Mao Ze dong, Mao Ze dong.

EXAMPLE 16. WonicnJe lingxiu Mao Zedong [Our leader Mao Zedong]
Translation: Like tall buildings rising from the land, like dragons and tigers

reposing atop high mountains, is our leader Mao Zedong, / who like the sun is

radiating red beams in the Yan'an area.

lo gu

xiang,

ge er jing tou gao, he icbang qi gc er jing tou gao, jin dan za bu ba Ue de diang.

changchang ran nun gong she hao, diang yi diang ren min gong she

iiu shi

hao, yt Chang ya, ren min gpng she hao.

EXAMPLE 17. Renmin gongshe jiu shi hao [People's communes are good]
Translation: Drums and gongs are beaten, / what a joyous sound! / Let us sing
heartily. / What shall we sing? / Let us sing praise to the people's communes.

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142

ISABEL K. F. WONG

jic tang qu ya mu he hai, da shcng chan ya mo he hai, jun dui he ren niin

xi U li li cha du cha cha suo loo luo luo tai, qi dong yuan ya mo he hai.
EXAMPLE 18. Bianqu shi chang [or] Jun min da shengchan [Ten stanzas in
praise of the border area (or) Soldiers and people produce together]

Translation: In the Liberated Area, he-hai, / soldiers and people, he-hai, /
work together, / xi ii h li / cha cha cha cha / suo luo luo luo tai / work together,
he-hai.

Uuyang he wan guo liao ji dao wan,

)i »hi li shui lu dao xiang jiang, liang bian

you ge (hen mo xian na, diu liao ge shen mo len

ling dao ren min de jie fang .) yi ya yi zi ye.

EXAMPLE 19. Liuyang he [The Liuyang River]

Translation: How many bends are there in the l iuyang River? ' How many
miles arc there to get to the Xiang River? / \\ hich district is it along the borders
of the river / in which a leader for the Liberation was born.^

It was during the War of Resistance against Japan that Chinese com-
posers (of all ideological persuasions) first made consistent and systematic
political use of these musical experiments. Popularized in war films, or
disseminated through the many war mobilization demonstrations taking
place all over China at the time, these war songs became an authentic
medium for the expression of modem Chinese nationalism. After Mao's
Yan*an ''Talks" of 1942, music personnel in Yan*an began to collect folk-
songs in the nearby northwestern provinces. Their distinctive styles were
then incorporated into songs for the masses as also were, eventually, those
of folksongs collected later from other regions.

Since 1949, songs for the masses have become an integral part of the

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SONGS FOR I Ht tDUCATlON Ob THE MASSES 143

tian &hang tai yang hong a hong dan dan e, xm zhong dc tai yang Mao Ze dong a.

^ J i'i> J ^Mf t /^rrri>j-^7 r I J'J ^' r - 1

ta lifv dao wo men de jie fang la, ten min fon sben dang iia zuo zhu ten.
yt ya yi zi ye e ya ya zi ye a

EXAMPLE 20. Tianshang taiyang hong tongtong [The sun in the sky is deep
red]

Translation: Like the red sun of the sky, / Mao Zedong is the sun of my
heart. / He leads us and liberates us, / making the people to be leaders of our
country.

mass media. They impart important and topical pohtical inh)rmati{)n to
the masses, motivate them to participate in current national projects and
campaigns, and in general arouse them to an awareness of group solidarity
and national consciousness. Songs tor the masses, together with their prede-
cessors, make up a repertoire of modern (Chinese songs that eclcctically
combine Western and Russian musical trans with those of indigenous
Chinese folksongs. These songs form a chronicle of the vicissitudes
through which, over the past hundred years, China has struggled to be-
come a modern nation.

As China emerged from the Cultural Revolution and embarked on a
policy of modernization, political campaigns, which occurred so often dur-
ing the previous decades, were de-emphasized. Likewise, the use of songs
as a political tool has also been de-emphasized. In recent years, increased
contact with the outside world has incidentally brought about the prolif-
eration of imported popular songs, particularly those from Hong Kong
and Taiwan. These songs are introduced either through overseas broad-
casts or on cassettes smuggled into China. Sung in a crooning style and
with sentimental texts concerned mainly with love and alienation, and
with accompaniments reminiscent of the early urban white rock-and-roll
of the late 1950s and early 1960s, these songs have gained popularity
among certain segments of urban youth. Even in the relaxed mood of the
late 1970s, this caused some consternation among Party and government
leaders, and over the following years steps were taken to control this new
trend.

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SIX

Model Opera as Model:
From Shajiabang to Sagabong

Bell Yung

The traditional pcrtorining arts in China have never been static but have
changed constantly as the needs of society have changed. Soineinnes the
process has been slow and the reasons behind it complex.' At other times
the changes have been rapid, drastic, and large-scale and the reasons more
ohvions. The oNoliition of Peking opera since the establishment of the
People's Republic offers an example of the latter kind of change. The
revolutionary model operas with contemporary themes that emerged in the
1960s represent the climax of a series of changes that began in 1949.

It may be helpful here to compare a few salient features of traditional
Chinese opera with Western opera. A Chinese opera is not known by its
composer but by its place of origin and, of course, by its title. According to a
survey conducted in 1957, China has over 350 different forms, or styles, of
opera.^ Each one is identified with a particular province, district, or dialea.
Some of these operas are popular over a wide area — ^Peking opera is heard
over most of China — but most are performed in only a small region.

Most of these regional operas have fairly large repertories. The stories
on which the performances are based come from historical and semihis-
torical accounts, myths, legends, and fiction. With few exceptions, the
stories have what are called "historical** settings.^ To a large extent, all

' For example, the restructuring of China's social order in the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries contributid to the flourishing of regional opera in many parts of the country during
that period. See Tanaka Issei, "Development of Chinese Local Plays in the Seventeenth and
Highteenth Centuries." Acta Asiaticj 23 (1972): 42-62.

' Su Yi, "Quanguo juzhung chubu tongji" [A preliminary listing of operatic genres in
China), in Xifu luncong jCoUected papers on theater], 1 (Peking, 1957): 215-223.

^ "Historical" generally implies that the story takes phue not Inter dian 1911, when the
Qing dynasty fell, if set after that time, stories are considered ''contemporary."

144

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the regional operas share the same stock of stories, which arc taniiliar to
audiences throughout China. The various forms differ in makeup, cos-
tume, gestures, and other details. Most important are the differences m the
dialects used .iiid in the musical materials.

The music of a Western opera is written by a composer. In traditional
Chinese opera, by contrast, the music of all the operas of a particular
regional style comes from a pool of prc-existent material identified with
that style. No single ''composer," in the Western sense of the word, is
responsible for any opera. The person who more or less takes the place of
the composer is the scriptwriter. Scriptwriters set down the text of the
opera and choose from the common pool the musical materials they con-
sider most appropriate. The repertories of most regional styles consist of
works transmitted through many generations without a known script-
writer. As long as they preserve the regional styles, performers can ma-
nipulate both the text and the music of the opera.

Most of the regional styles developed their distinctive features during or
after the seventeenth century. Since that time, as they have constantly
interacted with and influenced each other, their complex musical struc-
tures and compositional processes have continued evolve. Of all these
forms, by far the most popular and important has been Peking opera.
Beginning as an amalgam of several regional styles popular in Peking
during the eighteenth century, Peking opera became a distinctive form by
the latter part of that century. By the late nineteenth century, it had spread
through a large part of China and was considered the most sophisticated
of all the regional styles.'*

THE DEVELOPMENT OF MODEL OPERA

Throughout its history, people have tried to reform C^huiese opera m
various ways. One of the best-known recent examples dates from the early
twentieth century, when the famous smger Mei Lanfang and his literary
collaborator, Qi Rushan, brought literary sophistication into the Peking
opera and introduced gestures, movements, and singing styles from the
kunqu performmg stvle. The results have generally been recognized as an
improvement.' In Canton and Hong Kong during the 193()s and 1940s,
for another example, \X estern theatrical lechniques and music were liber-
ally adopted in the performances of Cantonese opera, largely in response
to popular demand.^

* For A brief history of Peking opera, see Colin Mackcrras, The Chinese Theater in
Modern Times (Amherst: University of .Vlassjchiisctts Press, 1975).

^ Chen Jiyin^;, Qt Rushan yu Met Lanfang [Qi Rushan and Mei Lanfang] (Taibei: Zhuanji
wenxue chubanshe, 1967).

^ Bell Yung, "The Music of Cantonese Opera** (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 1976).

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Since Liberation, China's C>)mmunist leaders have undertaken to re-
form Peking opera yet again, m the hght ot their poHcy that hteratiirc and
art are to be considered primarily a means of achieving poliiical goals.
There were attempts to create new theater and reform traditional theater
even before the liberation of the whole country. In 1942, after Mao Ze-
dong gave his well-known "Talks at the Yan'an Foram on Literature and
Art,** a new form of theater called yanggeju, with song and dance based
upon folk material, was created. Experiments to reform Peking opera were
also undertaken during the 1940s. The choice of Peking opera for the first
and major experiment in reform was justified by the form's hundred years
of prestige, popularity, and wide influence among the masses.

From 1949 to 1955, in the first major phase of change, the government
set up committees and agencies in Peking and in other centers throughout
the country to oversee the ''reform" of Chinese opera in general. Many
traditional works were revised, mainly in plot. At the same time, new
operas, many with contemporary and revolutionary themes (as opp>osed to
the traditional works, which employed historical settings almost exclu-
sively), were written and staged. Some traditional operas that were con-
sidered reactionary were officially banned or their performance discour-
aged by attacks in the press. This large-scale, hastily executed movement
to revise or originate a great number of operas resulted in a lowering of
artistic standards, while with the departure from the stage of popular
traditional elements attendance fell sharply.

These initial difficulties led directly, in 1^^56-1957, to the next phase of
development, which coincided with the Hundred Flowers movement. The
ban on reactionary operas was relaxed, so that many traditional operas
were revived in their original form. This liberal policy was enthusiastically
received by audiences; and the newly written operas with "cf)rrect" politi-
cal messages were performed far less often than in the previous period.

In 1958 there was another change of policy. Now opera was "to walk
on two legs," i.e., to alternate contemporary and revolutionary themes
with traditional, historical ones. Opera troupes were instructed to split
their repertories between the two forms. "Walking on two legs" repre-
sented a compromise: the traditional operas would supposedly draw the
audience into the theater, while the new operas would continue to relay
their "correct** political messages. External factors intervened, however. In
the late 1950s and early 1960s, China entered a period of economic de*
dine caused by, among other factors, the failure of the Great Leap For*
ward, the withdrawal of Soviet aid, and major natural disasters. The gov-

' According to a survey corultictcd m l'->56, operas with historical settings accounted for
well over 99 percent ot the total repertory. See 1 at) Junqi, ed., Jingfu /umu chutan (A
preliminary investigation of the repenory of Peking opera) (Peking: Zhongguo xiju chu-
banshe, 1963).

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ernmcnr responded by introducing greatly liberalized economic measures to
encourage production and at the same time relaxed its control over litera-
ture and art. The policy ot "walking on two legs" lasted in theory until
1963. In fact, however, opera troupes began to favor the obviously more
popular traditional operas over the newly written ones shortly after 1958.

From 1963 to 1965, the government again tightened its control over the
repertory. Reports, speeches, and articles by such prominent figures as
Mao Zedong and Jiang Qing denounced many traditional operas as feu-
dalistic, superstitious, and vulgar and urged the revolutionization of the
stage so that it would reflect and serve socialism. Peking opera was singled
out to be the first form of theater to undergo this metamorphosis. In the
summer of 1964, the National Festival of Peking Operas on Contemporary
Themes was held in Peking. Twenty-nine troupes, including some from
other provinces, staged thirty-five operas. During the next year, scores of
other operas with contemporary themes were written and produced, while
several newly written historical operas were harshly denounced. As a con-
sequence, all historical operas received far fewer performances and, even-
tually, ceased to be performed at all. During die Cultural Revolution,
attacks against tradition and the past in all areas intensified. By late 1966,
only a handful of operas were being performed. These were the five yang-
banxi ("model operas") with contemporary and revolutionary themes:
Shajiabang, Hong deng ji [The red lantern], Zhiqu Weihushan [Taking
Tiger Mountain by strategy], Haigang [On the docks], and Qixi Baihutuan
[Raid on the White Tiger Regiment].** In 1966, the term yangbanxi, or
model theater, generally referred to eight works, including the five operas
named above and three non-operatic works: the ballets Bai man mi [The
white-haired girl] and Hongse niangzijwi [The red detachment of women |,
and the symphonic suite based upon Shajiabang. From about 1969, several
other works were added to the category of yanghanxi, including the operas
Dujuanshan [Azalea Mountain], Ixyngjiatig song [Ode to the Dragon
River], Panshiwati [Bay of Panshi], Pingyuan zuozhan [Battle on the
plains], and Hongse niangzijun [The red detachment of women]; the sym-
phonic suite based on Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy; and songs from
Ihe Red Lantern. The origin and meaning of the word yangban
("model"), as used in the term yangbanxi have been studied elsewhere.
One meaning is certainly that these five operas were to serve as models for
other operas. By the early 1970s, several new operas had been created

' For a more detailed discussion of die history oi model opera, see, for example, Zhao

Cong, Zhongguo dalude xiqu gaige 1942-1967 (The reform of theater on the Chinese
mainland, 1942-1967J (Hong Kong: Chinese University Press, 1969) and Mackerras, Chi-
nese Theater.

' Hua-yuan Li Mowr), Yang-pan hsi — New 1 heater m China (Berkeley; University of
California Press, 1973).

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BtLL YUNG

along the same lines as the Hrst group of model operas; furthermore, a
large number of regional versions of the model operas, called yizhi gemmg
yafighanxi ("adapted" — literally, "transplanted" — "revolutionary model
operas"), were produced throughout CJima. For most of the Cultural
Revolution, these models and their adaptations were the only operas
staged. After the Gang of Four fell in 1976, however, the model operas,
whidi had been closely associated with Jiang Qing and her artistic
collaborators, '° soon passed out of prominence. They are now hardly ever
performed, except as musical excerpts heard occasionally on radio.

THE EVOLUTION OF A MODEL OPERA

The task of creating new operas on contemporary themes presented
operatic composers, scriptwriters, stage managers, and performers with
many technical problems. For example, such modem characters as worker,
peasant, and solider heroes and female revolutionaries had to be repre-
sented by the styles of singing and movement of the traditional role types.
Composers faced the major difficulty of trying to put music into written
notation in a form that had always been transmitted orally and whose
notational conventions and structural elements, therefore, had not been
subjected to the intense analysis given written ^nres such as poetry and, in
this century, fiction. These difficulties were compounded when it came to
the further process of adapting a model Peking opera into, for example,
Cantonese opera. The complexity of the problem is indirect testimony to
the rich diversity of theater in China and to the strength of regional tradi-
tions. The present paper will undertake a detailed technical analysis of one
such adaptation: the evolution of the model Peking opera Sbajiahaug into
the Cantonese opera Sagabong.^^ Specifically, 1 will compare the musical

"* Most notable among these was Yii Hiiiyonp, who served as Minister of Cailture during
the latter part of the Cultural Revolution. Yu played an important role m laymg the theoreti-
cal groundwork for the model operas. As a result of his political involvement, he committed
suicide during the purge of the Gang of Four shortly after the Cultural Revolution ended.
Interviews with musicians who worked under Yu during the Cultural Revolution h.n t re-
vealed rh.u ^'u was recognized as the source of all the important musical ideas, while rela-
tively minor duties such as orchestration were carried out by his assistants, for the following
operas: On the Docks, Azalea Mountain, Bay of Panshi, Ode to the Dragon River, and a
compietely revised version of Taking Tiger Momtain by Strategy, There is little doubt that,
during the second half of the Cultural Revolurion (1969 and after), Yu was the sole creative
force behind the model operas.

" Nanus and terms related to the model (Peking) opera are romani/ed according to the
Peking dialect, using the hanyu pinytn system. Names and terms related to the Cantonese
opera are romanized according to the Cantonese dialect, using the Yale system (but dropping
the h that distinguishes the low tones from the high ones). For Cantonese romanization, see
Parker Po-fei Muani: and c.crard P. Kok, Speak Cotttonese (New Haven: Yale University
Institute of Far Eastern Languages, I960).

MODEL OPERA AS MODEL

149

elements of the two operas, using as material the published opera scripts,
musical transcriptions, and film soundtracks.'"^

Shajiahang began life as lAidaug huozhong [Sp.irks amid the reeds], a
huju (Shanghai opera) with a modern setting created m 1958 by the
Shanghai People's Huju Opera 1 roupe. By 196.3, atter several years of
performance and revision, it had established itself as a popular item in the
troupe's repertory. In October of that year, the First Peking Opera Com-
pany adapted it as a Peking opera, Hrst staging it during the 1964 National
Festival mentioned earlier. After undergoing several drastic revisions in
1965 and receiving its present name, Shafiabang became one of the hand-
ful of model operas.

The story is set in Shajiahang, a town in Jiangsu province. It takes place
sometime in the early 1940s. A group of wounded New Fourth Army
soldiers, led by Instructor Guo, is hiding from the Japanese and National-
ist troops in the marshes near Shajiabang. Sister A Qing, an underground
agent of the Communist Party who runs a local tea shop as cover, protects
the wounded soldiers by deceiving Commander Hu and Adviser Diao of
the Nationalist forces. Instructor Guo, with courage and determination,
and helped by Sister A Qing and other local residents, overcomes all
adversities and finally returns to Shajiabang with his troops to annihilate
the enemy."

The Script

The script of Sagahong is a literal reproduction of that of Shajiahaug.
TIh songs are identical, and the spoken passages have been changed only
slightly, by the addition of Cantonese colloquialisms. This adaptation was
poorly done, however: some of the new expr^ions do not sound idio-
matic to a Cantonese ear, while many other parts of the spoken text that
should have been altered, if Cantonese were to be consistently preferred,
stayed the same. Thus the general effect of the spoken passages in Saga-
bong is artificial and awkward.'**

" Shajiabang (script and score of the Peking opera) (Peking: Renmin chubanshe, 1970);
^uifiabang—Yuefu changduan xuan [Shafiabang— stkcAon of sung passages firoin the Can>

tonesc opera vcrsiiHi] i.e., the SCOCeof this vcr:>ioii) (Hon^ Kong: Zhaoyang, 1971); Shaiia-
bang (the film of the IVkiiig opera, released by ( hangchun /hipian gWlgsi |C.hangchuti Film
Studio], 1*^71); and Shajiabang (the Him ot the Cantonese version, released by Zhujiang
dianying zhipian chang [Zhujiang Film Studio], 1972).

For more background material and a complete translation of the script, see Lois
Wheeler Snow, China on Stage (New York: Random House, 1972).

The spoken passages of traditional Cantonese opera are also not totally free of artifici-
ality and awkwardness, due to the heavy usage ot literary Chinese. However, the use of
colloquialism is consistent within a character type. A comical character generally speaks in a
colloquial style, while a more serious diaracter, such as a scholar or a government official,
speaks in literary Chinese. Thus, use of colloquialism is one means of characterization in
Cantonese opera.

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Modes of Speed) Delivery
Traditional Pckint; opera uses two major modes of speech delivery:
jingbai ("natural speech") and yuuhai ("declamatory speech"). The former
is the street dialect of Peking; the latter differs from the former in having a
different set of linguistic tonal inflections and slightly different consonants
and vowels. The yunbai is delivered in a heightened and artificial manner,
with a lelatively more drawn-out rhythm dian jingbai. It is purely a stage
speech. Traditional Cantonese opera commonly employs six or seven
modes of speech delivery,*^ but in Saguhung only the mode resembling the
street dialect of Cantonese is used. The other modes were eliminated in
obvious imitation of the similar simplification in Shajiabang.

Percussion Music

Percussion music, one of the most important musical elements in both
Peking and Cantonese traditional opera, serves many functions in a perfor-
mance. Not only does it accompany every kind of stage movement, from
long battle scenes to the roll of an eye, it also reflects the actors* thoughts
and emotions, introduces sung passages, and occasionally imitates the
sounds of such nonexistent stage props as a boat rocking in water. The
percussion instruments of traditional Peking opera are a drum, a pair of
clappers, a large and a small gong, and a small pair of cymbals. Cantonese
opera uses woodblocks (which take the place of Peking opera's drum and
clappers) and several kinds of large gongs and cymbals in addition to those
used in Peking opera (which are appropriately called in Cantonese jing
luogu [**Peking gongs and drums"]}.

Percussion music plays a noticeably smaller role in Shajiabang than in
traditional Peking opera. Several of its functions have been taken over by
an enlarged ensemble of string and wind instruments. Similarly, Sagabong
uses less percussion music than is traditional in Cantonese opera. Further-
more, the two operas are much more alike in their use of percussion music
than is any other pair of operas from the respective traditional repertories.
In many passages, the percussion score is identical. Another major change
in Sdi^jhofiiy is the total elimination of Cantonese gongs and cymbals; only
Peking gongs and drums are employed.

Tunes in Peking Opera

The adaptation of the model's singing passages into Cantonese was a
more complicated task. Peking opera, like most other traditional operas,
relies almost exclusively on pre-existent tunes. Peking opera's tunes can be
grouped into two basic families, the xipi and the erhuang. Each family

^ Yung, "Music of Cantonese Opera,** chap. 7.

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contains a small number ot tunes that share some traits but differ in
tempo, rhythm, and melodic detail. Each tune in the family has an estab-
lished dramatic function: for example, xipi kuathan is a member of the
xtpi family that has a relatively fast tempo and is generally sung during
lively or agitated moments in the drama. There is a total of about thirty
tunes (or tune prototypes) in the two families; each may be used one or
more times in an opera, and each may of course appear in many other
operas." TTie major prototypes in the xipi family arc:

xipi manban ("slow-tempo xipi'');
xipi yiianban ("standard-tempo xipi"");

xipi erliu (literally, "two six," a medium tempo xipi\ the name could be

a homonym for some other, more meaningful words);
xipi Uusl)i(i ("flowing-water-tempo xipi");
xipi knatbau ("fast-tempo xipi'');

xipi yaoban (a tune prototype in which the rhythm of the vocal line
docs not but the instrumental accompaniment does conform to a
simple meter or beat); and

xipi safiban (a tune prototype in which neither the vocal line nor the
instrumental accompaniment conform to any simple meter or beat).'''

In Peking, Cantonese, and many other kinds of regional opera, each
tune is identified by a name such as the ones given above. Most operatic
performances have no musical score; the script lists only the name of the
tune prototypes. The performer is expected to know how to fit the text to
the standard tunes.

A song passage in any Peking opera consists simply ok one or more
tunes sung one after the other, occasionally with spoken passages between
them. For example, in Act 2 of Sbajiabartg, Instructor Guo sings a passage
called "Zhaoxia ying zai Yangchenghu shang" [The morning glow over
Lake Yangcheng]. He uses the following series of tunes from the family:
xip! xUiUiban, xipi erliu, xipi liusbui, and xipi kiiaibau. 1 he same passage
appears in Sd^dbofig, with identical lyrics. Its musical treatment will be a
major concern of the present study. First, however, a few words must be
said about the musical structure of traditional Cantonese opera.

"* For a general discussion of the musical structure of Peking opera, see Liu jidian, fingiu
ymyue gailun (A general discussion on the music of Peking opera] (I'eking: Keiimin yinyuc
chubanshe, 1981); Rulan Chao Pian, "Aria Structural Patterns in the Peking Opera," in J. I.
Crump and William Malm, eds., Chinese and Japanese Music-Drama (Ann Arbor: University
of Michigan Pi«ss, 1975), pp. 65—89; and Gerd Sdidnfelder, Die Musik der Peking-Oper
(Leipzig: Deutscher Verlag fiir Musik, 1*^"2).

" While' the ety mology of the word hiiu still needs investigation and may not he related to
"tempo," the mterpretation of, for example, manban as "slow tempo" seems at least consis-
tent witli the stmctiire <tf die mu^c.

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I'unes in Cantonese Opera
CanroiKsc opera is related to Peking opera bur has a long history of its
own."* The tunes it uses are much greater m nLiiiibcr and quite different
from those in Peking opera. (Cantonese opera also has two families of
tunes, called bongji and yiwong (often abbreviated as bong wong). Musi-
cologists beheve that these two groups are historically related to xipi and
erhuang, respectively. The Cantonese forms do indeed share certain char-
acteristics with their counterparts in Peking opera. Each family has a
small, fixed number of prototypes that share some traits yet differ in
tempo, rhythm, and melodic details. For example, bongji faaidim is a
member of the bon^i family, has a relatively fast tempo, and is sung
generally during lively and agitated moments in the drama. The melodic
details of the Cantonese tunes are, however, quite different from those of
Peking opera.

The bong wong tunes form one of the two major categories of tunes in
Cantonese opera. The other category, siukuk, consists of tunes from a
wide variety of sources: folksongs from Guangdong and other provinces,
popular songs from movies and other media, tunes adapted from the clas-
sical kunqu and other operatic styles, and newly composed pieces. Siukuk
naturally shows a great diversity of melodic styles. But before the various
songs are performed onstage, they are given the "Cantonese" treatment:
their melodic details are modified, their melodic contours adjusted accord-
ing to the Cantonese musical scale and mode, and the instrumentation
peculiar to Cantonese opera added. Above all, pronouncing the lyrics of a
song in the Cantonese dialect unavoidably alters the song's melody, espe-
cially the vocal attacks and the decays of individual notes, until it sounds
more Cantonese, its use of siukuk gives Cantonese opera a strong regional
flavor as well as a richer melodic repertory than many other operatic
styles.

One nia|or difference between Sagahou^i and traditional Cantonese
opera is that the former has no siukuk tunes.'"* The passage from Act 2
of Shajiahanii sung to the sequence of xipi tunes listed above is sung to
identical texts in Sai^ahong, to the following sequence of tunes: bongji
niaanlhian ("slow-tempo bongji''), replacing xipi yuanban; bongji jung-
baan ("medium-tcnipo bongji""), replacing xipi er liu and xipi liusbui;
and bongji faai-jungbaan ("fast medium-tempo bongji"), replacing xipi
kuaiban.

" Mai Xiaoxia, "Guangdong xi|u shiliic" lA brief history of Cantonese operaj in Guang-
dottg wettwu {Cultural relics in Guangdong] (Canton, 1941), pp. 141-185.

" Siukuk only became popular in traditional Cantonese Opera in the 1920s and 1930s.
Oper.i scripts from before that period use only hong ivong tunes. Sagabong's elimination of
siukuk, therefore, may be considered a return to earlier practice.

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Bofigji tunes have here replaced the xipi tunes of Slraiidhaug, just as
yiivotig tunes elsewhere replace the motk'Ps crhniVig prototypes. The pat-
tern of replacement is logical, given the historical relationship between the
two pairs of families and the similarity of their respective dramatic func-
tions. \\ ithin a family, the choice of tune may depend on its tempo. For
example, the relatively slow xipi yuanhan used first in Shajiabang is re-
placed by the corresponding slow bongji maanbaan. A replacement tune
may also be chosen because it has a rhythm similar to that of the original
tune: xipi kuaiban and bongji faai-jiingbaan^ for example, share similar
rhythmic patterns. Finally, the tune's dramatic functions may also be an
important factor: xipi kuaiban and bongji faai-jungbaan are generally em-
ployed at lively or agitated moments in, respectively, traditional Peking
and Cantonese opera.

The Significance of Tune Names

The names of the tunes are much less important in Sagabong than in
traditional Cantonese opera, because the music of the former is written out
in full, either in staff or in number notation. The singers and instrumental-
ists need simply follow the score. The performers' independence of tune
names is reflected by the general disintegration in Sagabong of the other-
wise rigid correspondence of names to melodies. For example, the fast-
tempo bongji faaidim of Cantonese opera usually replaces the fast-tempo
xipi kuaiban of Peking opera to which it has rhythmic similarities. Indeed,
where xipi kuaiban tunes appear in Acts 2, 4, 5, and 8 of Shajiabang, they
are replaced in Sagabong by tunes whose melodic material identifies them
as bongji faaidim. However, the script calls these tunes bongji jivighaan
and bongji faai-junghaan, names that properly refer to two other Canton-
ese tunes. There are two possible explanations lor the change of name.
First, the word dim is not used in Peking opera and thus may have too
much Cantonese or regional flavor. Second, the Cantonese bongji faai-
jungbaan does have a tempo and a dramatic function like those of xipi
kuaiban. The performance shows that the singer follows the score rather
than the tune titles, which are now only hangovers from the old tradition
and apparently do not serve any prai_iical kinction.'*'

Another example of the alteration ot a tune name — or indeed of the
imitation of a Peking name, involves the tune known as gwanfa. This is
one of the most important and frequently used tunes in the bongji and
yiwong families. Like the sanban and yaoban tunes of the xipi and er-
huang families, gwanfa does not conform to any fixed meter or beat but is

^ Note that rune names in Cantonese opera may vary from region to region and from
period to period. I have derived the discussion here from the research 1 conducted m Hong
Kong in the early 1970s and from scripts of operas produced in the previous decades.

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BELL YUNG

rhythmically rather free. The most natural replacement for Shajiahdfm's
xipi sanban and yaolnw would be gwanfa. And, indeed, these Peking tunes
are replaced with what seems to he a cross between the original tunes and
gwanjd. But the title gwjnja is never used; instead, the Peking titles sanban
(Act 8) and liushid (Act 2) arc retained, although they have never before
been used in Cantonese opera. Gwanfa^ as too regional and colloquial a
tide, has been eliminated.

I'une Identity

Choosing corresponding times is not the only problem encountered in
turnmg a Peking t)pera into a Cantonese opera. When an original text as
W'ritten for a Peking opera is sung to a C-antonese bongji or yni'ong tunc,
the tune adjusts itself to fit the text. Is the adjusted tune, we may ask, still
the same tune? The situation poses an interesting challenge to the funda-
mental concept of tune identity.

The concept of ''a tune" in Chinese opera is not at all like the Western
notion and needs a word of explanation. The same tune sung with differ-
ent texts can sound like a different tune: certain structural elements of the
melody change to accommodate the various texts. Yet other elements of
the melody do not change, so that the tune's identity is preserved: the tune
may thus be recognized as such in order for it to serve its dramatic pur-
poses. For example, a tune will always be in couplets, but the length
(number of beats or measures) of the lines of the couplet may vary. Like-
wise the cadential notes are fixed, but the melodic contour may be flexible.
Whether a structural element is invariant and how much change can occur
without the loss of identity depend on the individual tunes and on the
operatic style.^* For example, in traditional Cantonese opera, the bongji
and yiwong tunes generally have invariant lengths: a couplet's melodic line
always has the same number of beats. In the xipi and erhuang tunes of
Peking opera, by contrast, the length of a melodic line is relatively more
flexible.

Consider the bongji faaidim tune of traditional Cantonese opera. Like
many other tunes ot the bongji family, it is in couplet torm. Hach melodic
line carries a textual line of seven syllables. It aKs avs has seven beats per
line, and the seven syllables are sung to a characteristic rhythmic pattern,
called its syllable placement. Example 1 shows this pattern (the crosses
represent the syllables in the line):

For a discussion of this issue in relation to Peking opera, see Pian, "Text Setting"; for a
discussion in relation to Cantonese opera, see Bell Yunjz, "Music Identity in Cantonese
Opera," in Daniel Heart? and Bonnie Wade, eds., International Musicological Society: Re-
port of the Twetfih Congress, Berkeley 1977 (Kassel: Bareiueiter Kassel, 1981}, pp. 669-
675.

Copyriyi iicu I : i ulCI lal

MODEL OPERA AS MODEL 155
EXAMPLE 1

Syllable placement of bongfi faaidim.

First line

Second and
subsequent lines

J J ^tn J J J

XX X X X X X

rlPl J J J J

In Act 2 of Shajiahang there is a section that begins dai tongzhi qin
ru yijia^ ("you treat your comrades as your own family"); the tune used is
xipi liushui. In Sagabong the tune is called hongji jungbaan but is, in fact,
bongji faaidim. The passage consists of nine couplets, of which the first
three are given in Example 2:

I XAMI'l.l. 2

First diree couplets of '*Ni dai tongzhi
qin ru yijia" {Shajiabang, Act 2).

line 1 Ni dai tong zhi qin ru yi iia

You treat your comrades as your own family,

line 2 Jing xin tiao li zhen bu cha

Taking care of them with the utmost attention,

line 3 Feng bu jiang xi bu ting shou

Mending and washing without ever stopping,

line 4 Yi ri san can you yu xia

Serving them fish and shrimp three meals a day.

line 5 Tong zhi men shuo si zhe yang chang qi lai zhu xia
Comrades told me, if they keep on living in this style,

Zhi pa shi xin ye kuan ti ye pang
They can't help feeUng relaxed and gaining weight —

Lu ye zou bu dong shan ye bu neng pa
No longer able to walk long distances or
climb hills.

hue 6 Zen ncng shang zhan chang ba di sha

How will they ever manage to fight the enemy again in combat?

Example ^ shows the syllabic placement for the six lines of text."~ The
crosses represent the syllables; the rhythmic notation above the text line

^ The transcription here is from Shajiabang (scri|>t and score of the Peking opera) (Pek-
ing: Renmin chubanshe, 1970).

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156 BtLL YUNG

EXAMPLE 3

ShajtaOang J J y }^J^ J J

line 1

Su^uuung

line 2

line 3

X X

^tn J J nj J ^

ling 4 XXXXXX X

u r r Lf^f r ^

line 5 xxxx xxxxxxxx

LfLT f 'Pf f Li a f

r>l i } t } } } \

XX X XXX XXX

f u i r r r » r f r »

xxxx X XX x^

r r ' [; LJ Lf r r

X XXX X X^ X

'TLff r r f

X XXX ^r—-' — ^ ^

7
7

line 6 xxxx x xxx

^[jrr rr r r r

9
91

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157

shows the syHable phicemcnt of xipi Imshui, that below, the placement of
honi^ji faaidnu. 1 he numbers at the end of each line represent the number
ot beats per Hne.

Comparison of the syUable placement of the two tunes shows a close
similarity. I he tunes also have almost the same number of beats per line.
The irregular number of beats in the melodic Hnes is not uncommon for
traditional Peking opera, but would be quite unusual in the bongji faaidim
of traditional Cantonese opera. Such irregularity would jar the ear of a
connoisseur; it would probably be considered nothing but a mistake. It is
easy to explain this example of irregularity of bongji faaidim.

The text of Shajiabang contains a large number of chenzi ( ''padding
syllables'* or ''padding phrases"), especially in line 5. The relatively flexi-
ble melodic line of Peking opera can accommodate these extra beats. How-
ever, the bongfi faaidim of traditional Cantonese opera almost always has
seven syllables per line. An occasional padding syllable (such as the fifth
syllable, qin, in line 1) can fit into the melodic structure without altering
the number of beats in the line. But there is no way to fit the many
padding phrases of line 5 into the melodic structure without increasing the
number of beats. The only way to retain the original text of Shajiabang
was to modify the tune by expanding it. Unfortunately, such a procedure
violates a crucial, structural criterion of bongji faaidim.

This discussion illustrates how, in the process of adaptation into Saga-
bong, the traditional tunes of Cantonese opera could lose their distinctive
charaaeristics. As a consequence, Sagabong also loses some of the charac-
teristic features of Cantonese opera.

The Role of Linguistic Tones
What makes a musical genre distinctive is not alw^ays something as
obvious as the length of a musical phrase or a set of cadcniial notes. In a
tonal language such as Chinese, the relationship between the words and
music in opera, especially the relationship between the linguistic tones of
the text and the melodic contour, can distinguish some musical genres
from others. The nature of this relationship has been an important issue in
the study of Chinese vocal music."^* Regional differences in the treatment of

See Yuen Ren C hao, "Tones, Intonarion. Singsong. Chanting, Recirntive. Tonal Com-
position, and Atonal t;oinpositK)n in C hinese," in Morns Halle, ed., /o/ Ruman jakobson
( I hc Hague: 1956;, pp. 52-59; John Hazedel Levis, Foundations of Chinese Musical Art, 2d
ed. (New York: Paragon, 1964); Lindy L. Mark and Fang Kuei Li, "Speech Tone and Melody
in Wu-Ming Folk Songs," in Ba Shin, Km Boisselicr, and A. B. Griswold, eds., Essays
Offen'ii to Ci. H. Luce [Ascona, Switzerland: Artibus Asiae, 1966), pp. I6~-186; Pian, "Text
Setting"; Yang Yinliu, Zhiinf^^uo x'/n/u/ yinyue shtgjo | Draft history of old Chinese music), 2
vols. (Peking: Renmm yinyue chubanshe, 1981); and liell Yung, "Creative Process of Canton-
ese Opera: The Role of Linguistic Tones," in Ethnomusicology 27, 1 (January 1983): 29-47.

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158

BELL YUNG

the text reveal mucli about how works arc composed in the regions' par-
ticuhir genre of opera and about the musical values of the community.
Pekmg opera and Cantonese opera are quite different in this respect. In the
process of adaptation, how was the Peking style handled m Sji^jhom^}
Chinese is a tonal language: i.e., it uses pitch not only for intonation but
also to differentiate syllables, as vowels or consonants do in English. The
relative pitch levels, the contour of pitch movement, and the duration of
pitch may all have phonemic significance. The term "linguistic cone" refers
to these pitch properties of a spoken syllable. Each Chinese dialect has a
small number of tonal categories, into which all syllables spoken in that
dialect fall. The Peking dialect has (our tonal categories, whose char-
acteristics can be transcribed with simple symbols: a simplified time-pitch
graph is drawn to the left of a vertical reference line that represents pitch
height. Thus, ~| stands for a tone that begins high, remains high, and ends
high. ^ stands for a tone that begins at midpoint, rises, and ends high,
vl stands for a tone that begins at midpoint, falls, then rises and ends at
midpoint. \J stands for a tone that begins high, falls, and ends low. Using
this schema, the tones of the Peking dialea can be represented as follows:^'*

EXAMPLE 4
Linguistic tones of the Peking dialect.

n ^ vl M

first second third fourth

The syllables of the first two lines in Example 1 have the following
linguistic tones:

EXAMPLE 5

First two lines of Example 2 with the linguistic tones of the Peking dialect.
Unci vl ^J 1 \l 1 1 \l "1

dai

tong

zhi

qin

y«

line 2

jing

xin

tiao

zhen

cha

When these lines are spoken, the voice goes through a ceruin amount of
tonal inflection. When the same lines are sung, the syllables follow a
melodic line that has a distinct pitch contour. Is there any discernible

After Yuen Ren Chao, A Grammar of Spoken Chinese (Berkeley: University of Califor-
nia Press, 1968).

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MODEL OPtRA AS MODEL

correspondence between the lyrics of the song as spoken and as sung? The
tol lowing is a transcription of the same two lines as sung to xipi liushuir^

EXAMPLE 6

First two lines of xipi liushui from Shofiabang (Act 2).

I f j " r I i -f-n FIJ I :

J >! i ^^ 1 1 Xl 1

ni dai tong zhi qin ru yi jia

1 1 A vl 14 1

jing xin tiao li zhen bu cha

C'oniparison between the linguistic tones of the text and the melodic line
shows that they behave somewhat differently, and at times independently.
For example, the second syllable dai (J ) has a linguistic tone that drops to
a relatively low^ pitch; it is, however, sung here to a melodic phrase that
rises to a high pitch. Of the next two syllables: tong ) and zhi (J ), the
first rises to a rclauvely high pitch level while the second drops to a
relatively low level. But the musical contour shows zhi at a higher pitch
than tong. This lack of apparent correspondence between the hnguistic
tones of the text and the melodic contour is often found in traditional
Peking opera.^*

The Cantonese dialect has nine tonal categories:^^

EXAMPLE 7

Linguistic tones of the Cantonese dialea.

1 J 1 J 1 -I -I -I .1

Upper Lower Upper Lower Upper Lower Upper Middle Lower
Even Even Rising Rising Going Going Entering Entering Entering

" The transcription here is from ^afiabaug (script and score of the Peking opera) (Pe-
king: Rcnmin chubanshe, 1970).

The rcl.uionship bcrwirn linguistic tones and tnclodic contour in Peking opera involves
more than the simple question ot corrcspondtnce discussed here. See Fian, "Text Setting," for
further detaib.

" After Yuen Ren Chao, The Cantonese Primer (New York: Greenwood Press, 1947).

The symbols for the three entering tones have been changed in this essay from Chao's short,
horizontal strokes to dots in order to avoid confusion with the other tones, hi phonetic
transcription lor most Chinese dialects it is common practice to reserve the dots (at various
heights) for neutral tones. However, since Cantonese does not have neutral tones, the danger
of such confusion does not exist.

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These tont-s have several diftcrcnr pitch levels; flat, rising, or falling
contours; and long or short durations (the short tones are marked with
dots). The Cantonese version of the two lines we have been considering is:

EXAMPLE 8

First two lines of example 2 with linguistic tones of the Cantonese dialect.

line 1

nei

doi

tung

sam

yat

line 2

iing

sam

tiu

jan

bat

cha

When adapted to Sagabong, the text is sung to bongji faaidim:'^

EXAMPLE 9

First two lines of bottQi faaidim from Sagabong (Act 2).

if- I I ^] ' I -

A A J -1 1 J •[ ^

nei doi tung ji can yu yat ga

)ing sam tiu lei jan bat cha

(Comparison between the textual and melodic contours shows that they
correspond much more closely than in ShajiabiWg. For example, the third
syllable tung (J ) has a low spoken pitch, and its melodic line drops to a
low pitch. Similarly, the fourth syllable // ("] ) has a high pitch, and its
melodic line correspondingly rises to a high pitch. This correspondence
holds up in the rest of the line and throughout the other song passages of
the opera, in a previous study, I showed that traditional Cantonese opera
matches the linguistic tones of the text to the melodic contour of the song
according to a rigid rule.^' To a certain extent, this rule was also observed
in the adaptation of Sagabong.

Closer inspection, however, reveals that this rule was not always ob>
served as rigorously as it would be in traditional Cantonese opera. At
places, the linguistic tones of the text do not match the melodic contour.

^ The transcription here is from Shajiabang—Yuefu changdnan xuan,
Yung, **Crcative Process of Cantonese Opera," p. 37.

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MODtL OPERA AS MODEL

i6i

For example in line 1, the Hrst sylhible nei ( J ) is sung to the note C. Yet
the last two svllahles of the same line, \Jt ) ), whose linguistic

tones have a relatively higher pitch than the hrst syllable, are sung to the
note A, a minor third lower. Another example occurs in the last three
syllables of line 2, which all have high-pitched Imguislic tones but are sung
to a descending scale. In traditional Cantonese opera, such singing would
be considered a poor performance.

It was perhaps the difficulty ot adapting a text in the Peking dialect to
Cantonese that necessitated some relaxation of the rule of matching. In
traditional Cantonese opera, a line of text must follow certain patterns of
linguistic tones and avoid others. One pattern to avoid is a sequence of
several syllables that have the same linguistic tone. In Example S, the last
three syllables of line 2 have the following tones: ^ I ^ • Even though the
middle syllable has a different tone from the others, it shares the same
pitch height, so that the three syllables are spoken with three consecutive
high pitches. This is considered a poor pattern. Another pattern to avoid is
parallel sequences of linguistic tones in two consecutive lines of text*-
especially at the ends of the lines. Such a pattern appears in the last two
syllables of line 1 and the last two syllables of line 2, which have an
identical pair of linguistic tones.

The reason for avoiding these two tonal patterns is not difficult to
understand. Since the melodic contour has to correspond closely to the
linguistic tones of the text, a sequence of identical, or near-identical, tones
would produce a melodic line that also did not vary in pitch. In Cantonese
opera such repetition is not considered esthetically pleasing. Similarly,
when two consecutive lines of text have identical or near-identical tonal
patterns, the resultant two lines of melodies will be too similar for the
Cantonese taste. Since the text of Sagabong was not originally designed for
Cantonese opera, there are many instances where rules about patterns of
linguistic tones are broken. The Cantonese composer, if he wanted to he
faithful to the text, had two alternatives. First, he could have broken the
rule about matching linguistic tones and melodic contour. Second, he
could have adhered to the rule but sacrificed the esthetic principles that
govern Cantonese music. In Example 9, the composer compromised,
adhering basically to the rule but applying it somewhat less rigidly than in
traditional Cantonese opera. The last three syllables of line 2 arc evidently
sung to a descending scale to avoid repeating the same pitcli three times.
Even so, the melody in Example 9 is still unusual tor Cantonese opera
because the pitch contours of the two lines are a little too similar: the
linguistic tones of the two lines of text resemble each other more than is
generally considered proper.

The brief discussion above shows that, in the process of adapting .S7;i7-
jhihiing into Cantonese opera, some musical elements of traditional C anto-
nese opera were incorporated into the new work while others were modi-

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fied or ignored. I hc text Wvis the central, determining factor, in deference
to which C^antonesc idioms and melodies had sometimes to he sacrificed.
Also eliminated was such indigenous Cantonese music as that which
formed the rich repertory of siukuk. Since bougji and yiicong are histori-
cally related and structurally similar to the tunes used in Peking opera,
many bongji and yiwong tunes are retained; however, some of them w ere
SO altered that they lost their identity. At times, names of the Cantonese
tunes were altered. Finally, many locally popular musical instruments were
omitted. One important iPeature of traditional Cantonese opera that Saga-
bong incorporated is the special rule that the linguistic tones of the text
and the pitch contour of the melody should match. Yet, as pointed out
above, even this rule was occasionally relaxed in order to accomodate the
text.

THE EFFECTS OF MODEL OPERA ON CHINESE MUSIC

In the pages above, I have briefly examined some musical aspeas of the
adaptation of a model opera into a regional form. Other musical elements,
such as vocal style, instrumentation, and tuning systems, as well as such

nonmusical elements as costumes, sets, acting, and dancing also need to be
studied before the relationship between model and adaptation can be fully
understood. Such a study should also extend hexond the pair of works
discussed here to the many other adaptations of model operas into Canton-
ese and other regional operatic styles. The many different forms of re-
gional opera no doubt entail very different problems and solutions for the
adaptor. Yet, even given its limitations, the present study allows us to
draw some conclusions about the consequences for Chmese music of the
system of model operas.

The main consequence of adaptation, when the model has played its
role effectively, is that the copy loses many of its regional characteristics.
The texts ot the adaptations had to be uniform because they had, in the
then-current political clmiate, to follow strictly the official guidelines
about "correct" content. Yet, from this brief study of Shajiabang and
Sagabong, we see that regional adaptations also tend to lose their musical
identity. Two factors lie behind this loss.

In the Hrst place, model operas were expected not only to present cor-
rect political messages but also to meet the highest artistic standards. Thus,
adaptors were under pressure to disregard their regions' native style in
favor of the model opera's artistic example. We have seen how the creators
of Sagabong discarded musical materials of indigenous Cantonese origin.

The second influence operated less directly. In Chinese vocal music,
perhaps more so than in other cultures, the structure and style of the music
are closely related to the verse form of the text and to the linguistic

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163

characteristics of the regional dialect. We have seen that this relationship is
especially close in Cantonese opera. Yet the text of the model opera, which
is adopted almost verbatim, brings with it the verse form and dialectal
peculiarities of the Peking dialect. The musical structure of the .iJaptation
will inevitably be affected by elements of the borrowed text that arc alien
to the regional style.

There may be much to regret if the future development of Chinese opera
continues along these lines. The great diversity of regional operatic genres
constitutes an immense musical treasure. It is the fruit of centuries of
artistic effort and an inexhaustible resource for China and the world. The
loss would be irreparable if such diversity were to be forced to fit a single
mold.

Throughout the history of Chinese opera, regional genres have con-
stantly interacted with and influenced each other. The model opera Shajia-
hang was itself adapted from a Shanghai-style opera. In some periods, a
certain genre gained so much popularity or social prestige that its influence
became unusually strong. Notable examples have been yiyang opera in the
sixteenth century, kunqu opera in the seventeenth century, and pihuang
opera (later known as fingju or Peking opera) in the nineteenth and early
twentieth centuries. It was not, therefore, really a new idea when, during
the Cultural Revolution, Peking opera was made the model for other
regional operas. However, two factors distinguish this recent domination
from those of the past. First, official pressure was applied both to encour-
age regional operas to copy the models and to ban the traditional reper-
tory. Second, the model opera has a strong theoretical basis, which not
only applies ideological principles to the Uterary content but also imposes
rigorous and extensive restraints on the style, structure, and function of
the music.

Between 1966 and 1977, the model operas and their adaptations domi-
nated the musical scene in China. One should not forget that, regardless of
their ideological content, the model operas were created after extensive
research in music theory and arc exceptional works of art in the history of
Chinese music. They have undeniably influenced the musical taste both of
musicians and, more imporr.inrly, of the masses in the period since the
Cultural Revolution. Musical and theatrical experiments first tried in the
model operas have their offspring today in many genres of Chinese music
and drama and such experimentation will, undoubtedly, continue for
main vears to come.

1 he appearance in the 1950s and 1960s of an extensive body of music
theory, with an emphasis on the analysis of music sound (as opposed to
the analysis of the philosophical and social contexts of music) was in itself
an important development in the history of Chinese music. One major
reason for this development was certainly related to the pressure to create

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model operas. An important consequence of the theorizing was that musi-
cians' concepts ot music and of their compositional procedure began to
change. These changes will surely have deep significance for the luture of
Chinese music.

In the last few years, the poHticai climate in China has once again
changed. Among the areas most obviously affected by these changes have
been music and theater. Although model operas and their adaptations are
rarely seen or heard today, their influence on the future course of Chinese
music and theater should not be discounted.

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SEVEN

from Romantic Love
to Class Struggle:

Reflections on
the Film Liu Sanjie

Wai-fong Loh

The development of the legend of l.iu Sanjie [ Third Sister I.in| can he
traced in several local gazetteers m the I.ingnan area of South C'hina and in
Ming-Qing writings. Many of the songs she supposedly wrote are still sung
in Southwest C^hina, particularly by the minority /.huang tribe in Guangxi
province, and have been further popularized since the film was made in
1961. Twentieth-century field researchers have collected various oral tradi-
tions about l.iu's lite. The reception of the film Lm Saujic can be estimated
both from box-office statistics and from articles published from U^6l to
1962 in Dazhouii dianyhig [Popular cincniaj and mure recently in other
newspapers and magazines.

The analysis offered here, based mamlv on the source materials men-
tioned above, deals more with the content and style of Liu Sanjie, espe-
cially with its historical development and ideological implications, than
with filming techniques or the director*s skill. However, as a film, Liu
Sanjie exhibits characteristics common to all films. The making of any
motion picture entails a high cost, which must be justified either by profit,
as has been the case in Hollywood, or by the benefit of the ideology
conveyed, as in the case of the Chinese film industry. In either case, a
production cannot be considered satisfaaory unless it is approved and
appreciated by a large audience. The critics* discussions and the audiences*
reception of Liu Sanjie clearly illustrate a major characteristic of the Chi-
nese film industry. Thus, a few words about the history of film in China
are in order here.

The development of the Chinese film industry can be divided into five

periods:

In the first period, that of the silent film (1905-1930), all serious film
makers were trying both to educate and to entertain. They wanted to effect

16S

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WAl-FONG LOH

reforms, and their Hlnis attack such feudal customs as arranged marriage
{Nan fu nan qi [The arranged marriagcj), the exploitation of women {Qi
fu [The abandoned woman]), and family restrictions. The evils of opium
smoking [llciji yuanhun [The soul lost to opiumj) and bureaucratic cor-
ruption {Tan guan rong gui [I he splendid return of a corrupt official])
were also common themes.

Clearly definable left-wing films began to emerge in the second period,
the stage of free experimentation (1930-1949). 1930 was the year in
which sound movies were first made in China; in the same year, Xia Yan
organized a left-wing film group whose function was to write screenplays.
Some typical products of this group were Kuang liu [Wild current] by Xia
Yan, San'ge modeng mxing [Three modem women] by Tian Han, and
Zhongguohaide nu chao [The angry tides of the China Sea] by Yang
Hansheng. From this stage on, film makers (and viewers) were divided into
two intensely hostile camps. Both sides were nationalistic, but the films of
the left emphasized class struggle, those of the right theories of universal
human nature. There was competition, too, between serious films made to
fulfill an educational purpose and those made purely for entertainment.
This was probably one of the most colorful stages in Chinese film history.

In the third period, from Liberation to the beginning of the Cultural
Revolution (1950-1965), films were subjected to stringent state guide-
lines. Class struggle became the dominant theme. As the left took over the
industry in China proper, the arena of struggle between the left and right
esthetic camps moved to Hong Kong, where film audiences usually pre-
ferred entertainment to messages.

The fourth period (1965-1977) can be called the stage of internal con-
flict, in which films were sometimes used to discredit political enemies.
This period was also characterized by the intensified "model theater"
iyangbanxi) movement in film.

The last period, from the Cultural Revolution to the present, to some
extent resembles the preceding period. 1 prefer, however, to consider it as a
new stage of free experimentation under state guidance, bilin makers have
been re-examining the value of China's traditional performing arts and
learning from the West's film industry. Their films have been displaying
greater variation of theme and style, although almost every film still bears
a solemn message.

From the time of the silent movies, serious Chinese film makers and
viewers demanded that each film have a solemn, educational theme or
message. Only productions sanctioned by traditional performing arts like
Peking opera or screenplays adapted from traditional popular fiction were
exempted from diis demand. The attitudes toward various types of films
can be described, in simplified form, as follows: Films of sudi traditional
forms of performing arts as Peking opera were appreciated or, at least,

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FROM ROMANTIC LOVH I O CLASS STRUCGLE

167

tolerated. Farce, vulgar comedy, and detective or adventure films were
usually condemned, although the overwhelming majority of films made
during the first two stages were of this type. Most important w-ere the
wenmirig dianyiug ("modern films"), the majority of which were adapted
from the stage form called wemyiingxi ("modern drama"). These films
always had a clearly spelled-out social or nationalistic theme, congruent
with the views of either the right or the left camp. Docuniciuary films were
usually accepted by both the right and the left as necessary and useful. The
left, however, was occasionally suspicious or even hostile to documentaries
commissioned or made by foreigners about such "strange** Chinese cus-
toms as funerals or foot bindmg.

Liu Sanjie was a product of the third period of Chinese film history.
With great skill and imagination, its makers adapted a traditional story to
fit a popular but overworked theme, managing in the process to be bodi
entertaining and educational.

THE LEGEND OF LIU SANJIE

Many variants of the legend of Liu Sanjie have been recorded by mem-
bers of the educated elite, in local gazetteers, and in field researchers'
collections. Details included in any particular version seem to depend more
on who preserved that version than on when or where the legend was first
developed. One of the earliest versions appeared in the seventeenth century
in Qu Dajun's Guangdong xuiyu (New stories from Ciuangdong).' Accord-
ing to Qu, Liu Sanmei (i.e., Liu Sanjie) was born at the turn of the eighth
century a.d. m Xinxin, Ciuangdong. She grew up to become an ingenious
woman thoroughly educated in the classics and history and especially good
at making up songs. Many singers traveled for a thousand li to hear her
and to compete with her. Most of them exhausted their repertoire of songs
in two or three days and left full of admiration for her. Liu traveled
frequently in Guangdong and Guangxi provinces, where she not only
learned the dialects of the minority groups but also composed songs in
these languages. The songs she made for these groups were always ac-
cepted as models. Liu Sanmei **acquired enlightenment** {de dao) through
music In Guangdong, the exchange of songs, particularly between two
lovers, was an established, ritualistic form of communication. For seven
days and seven nights Liu Sanmei and a youth exchanged songs on the top
of a hill, until finally they turned into stones (i.e., achieved immortality).
The natives of Yangchun district built a temple at the spot, where in later
days singers came to offer copies of their new songs and to pray. At one

* Qu Dajun (1630-1696), Guemgdong xinyu, 8:5a-b.

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time the keeper of the temple had several boxes of such songs, which other
singers would copy.

Another early Qing record, included in the L>u]i>i tushu jicheng J Ancient
and modern lihraryj, describes the mystery of the smging immortal Liu
Sanmei vividly and in great detail. She was born (according to this author)
in A.D. 705, in Guixian, Guangxi. She was not only well educated but also
a descendant of the Imperial clan of the Han dynasty. When her friend
Zhang Wetwang, a xhtcai (dvil-service licentiate) from Langling, Guangxi,
came to visit her, the natives built a stage for the two to sing on. On the
third day the assembly needed more room and moved to the hills. On the
seventh day, the songs could no longer be heard from below. A boy
dispatched to invite the singers down the hill found them turned into
stone. All the natives climbed the hill to offer their prayers. When Liu*s
betrothed, Lin, went up the hill, he laughed and also turned into stone.

These two variants seem to be folktales considerably remodeled by their
educated transcribers, who probably added Liu's educational background
and genealogical information. In local gazetteers such as the Tongzhi
Cangunt xkmzhi [Cangwu district gazetteer, Tongzhi period, 1862-1874],
Liu appears as a peasant who worked at the spinning wheel and in the
field. Versions such as this are probably closer to the **rear Liu Sanjie.
This more popular conception can be reconstructed from gazetteers and
records of the oral tradition.

The Yishan xianzhi [Yishan district gazetteer, LSSlj introduces n villain
in the person of Liu's brother: "Liu Sanmei loved to sing. Her brother
disliked her." In the early 1940s, Chen Zhiliang recorded a related variant
from oral tradition in CiUiUiiixi tczhoni^ huzu gcyiin ji [Folksongs of mi-
norities in Guangxi]. This version, popular in Yongxian, (iuangxi, relates
how Liu's brother tried on several occasions to stop her from going out to
sing with boys. Each time, she was able to outwit him and escape his
domination.

Although the tales recorded by field researchers after Liberation usually
depicted Liu as one who loved labor, the tales collected in 1961 in
CtHiingxi Zhudtigzu wcuxuc (Zhuang minority literature from diiangxi]
offer versions of the legend that treat her duties as obstacles to happiness.
The tale told around the Fusui area explains that singing was an activity
often enjoyed by people in love. Liu claimed she would only marry a man
who could sing better than she, while her brother and mother wanted her
to marry a rich man. To prevent Liu from singing, her brother made her
carry water in barrels with pointed bottoms, which she could not set down
when she wanted to tarry to sing a song. But Liu Sanjie nonetheless man-
aged to stand the barrels on the ground without their tipping. Her brother

^ GM/m tu^ ficheHg, part 6, ftum 1440.

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169

then gave her many other tasks, which she always completed, until, en-
raged, he finally pushed her off a chff.

In the story popular in the Yishan area, the villain was a member of the
gentry who thought that the free way in which Liu sang love songs with
young men was against the Confucian moral code. Several tales relate how
Liu won song competitions with educated xiucai. In one story, three xiucai
arrive with a shipload of songbooks. When they found that the books
offered little help against Liu*s natural wit, they threw all the books into
the river — or, in another version, burned them.

All but the first two of these variants emphasize one of two main themes.
In the first, Liu Sanjie defies the prohibitions of her family (or of Confucian-
ism) and insists on choosing her own lover. Thus presented, the legend is
essentially a love story. In the second theme, the victory of Liu Sanjie, the
uneducated peasant, over educated xiucai seems to challenge the elite values
of education and self-cultivation. Either theme makes for a very romantic
story. Yet neither theme was adequate for the modern presentation of Liu
Sanjie's story. A revolutionary work must emphasize the value of labor, the
wisdom of the masses, and above all, class struggle. Contemporary versions
of Liu's legend have been submitted to a stringent review procedure. In the
late 1950s, the Liuzhpu caidiao tuan (The Group for Liuzhou Opera) de-
cided to write a play about Liu. Researchers combed Guangxi province for
stories and songs, collecting more than two hundred legends plus dozens of
folksongs and melodies. In 1959, after several stages of collective creation, a
third draft of the play /./// Sanjie was staged as the opera Geju Liu Satijic
[Opera of Third Sister Liu]. Other theatrical groups also then experimented
with the new work; in April 1 960, more than twenty versions were staged in
Nanning. Conferences and workshops were held after the performances. In
1961 the Chinese Theater Press published a revised version of the play, in
the same year Changchun Studio released a movie based on the CTP ver-
sion. Thus, although Qiao Yu wrote the script for the film, many people had
cooperated in the actual reworking of the original story.

THE HLM LIU SANJIE

The film Liu SiUijie can best be described as a musical {gechangpian)^
although it has also been called an opera igeju) and a feature film {gushi-
pian). Its simple story is told and sung in lyrics accompanied by beautifully
recreated folk music. In the Him Liu is a firewood-cutter who arracks the
rich landlords through her songs. One of the landlord's men cuts a rattan
vine while Liu is using it to climb a cliff; she falls into the river below, but
survives to spread revolutionary ideas down the river by singing to the
peasants and fishermen. She runs afoul of another rich landlord, the film's
main villain, and falls in love with a fisherman's son. In the end, the lovers

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evade the landlord's pursuit and disappear into the river mist, presumably
to continue preaching revolution through song. Although the film is not
set in a specific period, many of the audience probably knew that, accord-
ing to legend, Liu Sanjie lived in the 1 ani; dynasty.

Many details reveal the industry and skill of the contributors to the film
version. First, the tale was transformed from a romantic love story into an
educational comedy of class struggle. The conflict between landlords and
peasants was emphasized, while the love interest and the song competition
were retained — ^although, of course, revolutionary sentiment became the
foundation of the former and the latter was presented as a contest between
the landlord class and the peasants.

If it is difficult to convert a mythical romance into a revolutionary story,
it is even more difficult to give a revolutionary story the light-hearted tone
of a comedy. Revolutionary themes call up violent feelings, yet the violence
must not be allowed to spoil the light atmosphere of the story. The early
Liuzhou version had one scene in which Liu Sanjie was making an em-
broidered arrow bag for her lover, and the play ended with the lover killing
the landlord with an arrow. This grim conjunction was abandoned by Qiao
Yu. Instead, he had Liu Sanjie embroidering a xm<iiu (a cloth or silk ball
that, when offered by a girl to a man, means the girl promises to marry the
man); at the end, Lin uid her lover simply evade the landlord's pursuit.

The scriptwriter had very litde room to maneuver revolutionary ideol-
ogy. Insinuation and sarcasm were his most frequent tactics. For example,
the early field researchers collected this riddling song:

What has a moudi but won't talk?

What hasn r .my mouth but makes a lot of noise?

What has legs but won't walk?
What hasn't legs but travels a lot?

Buddha has a mouth but won't talk.

A gong has no mouth but makes a lot of noise.

A chair has legs but won't walk.
A boat has no legs but travels a lot.

By altering this only a little, the scriptwriter accomplished his task almost
perfectly. His version goes:

What has a mouth but won't talk?

What hasn't any mouth but makes a lot of noise?

What has legs but won't walk?

What hasn't legs but travels a lot?

Buddha has a mouth hut woirt talk.

A gong hasn't any mouth but makes a lot of noise.

A rich man has legs but he won't walk.

His money has no legs but travels a lot.

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171

When, in the film, Liu Sanjie sings the third Hne of the answer, we are
shown the villain sitting in a sedan chair being rushed down the road. The
juxtaposition is indeed funny, and die insinuation clear. Overall, however,
Qiao Yu shows somewhat more interest in entertainment than in indoctri-
nation. The love story and the hilarious song competition occupy at least
as important a role in the Him as does class struggle. The scriptwriter even
sacrificed such a commendably revolutionary statement as: "If 1 am right, I
dare to scold the Emperor, it doesn't matter whether you are a lord or
not** — probably because of its coarseness of style.*

Almost all the songs in the film are of high esthetic quality and, with
some exceptions during the song competition, refined in bt)th style and
content. Comparison reveals that the bellicosity of the early play versions
was toned down in the film to the point where even conservative audiences
in Hong Kong and Singapore could lind the central theme acceptable and
amusing. The villain is ugly and stupid but not as evil as most villains in
post-Liberation films. This forbearance may mark one instance in which
art prevailed over ideological considerations. However, there is no doubt
that in Lm Sanjie the scriptwriter successfully grafted an alien theme onto
a legend, thus bringing the story to a new stage of its existence.

1 he whole film emphasizes the esthetically rich and tr.inquil life of
peasants and iishcrnicn. The music and songs bear out the same theme.
Even hostile critics paid tribute to the beauty of its cinematography and to
the composers and musicians who worked on the film. Yet, although they
received less attention, the lyricists and the scriptwriters deserve most of
the credit for the film's success. While the composers worked with beauti-
ful folk music and songs, the lyricists had to juggle legends, love vows, and
revolutionary ideology — sl feat they accomplished with elegance. Widiout
losing much of the folksongs* original flavor and beauty, these artists were
able to adapt them into songs that preached revolution while matching the
quality, both of style and content, of the poetry in the Shifing [Book of
songs). Here, for example, is one of the opening songs of the film, with a
rough translation:

Shan ding yon hua

shun fiao xiuui^ (Ic)

qiao di you shui

qiao mian Hang (le)

xin zhong you liao bu ping shi (le)

shan ge tu huo chu xiongtang {le)

' The screenwriter also cut some other coarse couplets. See Zhang Haizhen, "Dianjring
Liu Sanjie de chuli shi zhengquede" [The treatment of the film Liu Sanjie is correct], Da-
zhong dianying [Popular cinema] (1962), 2: 19-20.

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WAI-FONG LOH

(where there are flowers on top of the hill,
there will he fragrance at the loot ot the hill.
Where there is water underneath the bridge,
it will be cool when you stand on the bridge.
Where there is injustice that you feci in your heart,
a song will burst out like fire from your breast.]

This song resembles classical poetry in form, but has a simplicity and a
concreteness of expression that recall folk poetry. It has the virtue and
power of folk wisdom. The logic of human feelings and expression is
gracefolly interpreted by parallels from nature. Yet in style this song is
comparable to a classical poem such as this one, from the Booi^ ofSongsi

Tossed is that cypress boat,
W ave-tossed it floats,
My heart is in turmoil.

My heart is not a stone.
It cannot be rolled.
My heart is not a mat,
It cannot be folded away.

O sun, ah moon.

Why are you changed and dim?

Sorrow clings to me

Like an unwashed dress.

In the still of the night I brood upon it,

Long to take wing and fly away.

It may be said that the lyric in Liu Sanjie has the same quality as this. The
songs of Liu Sanjie are not only potently persuasive but also gracefully
entertaining; maintaining classical forms, they display a crystal clarity and
freshness that are often blended with a certain degree of innocence, as do
the poems shown above.

The songs in Liu Sanjie are simple and plain, sometimes funny, and
sprinkled with socialist ideology; but they are always elegant. They seem
to stand, stylistically, at the meeting-point of elite and popular culture, and
they were welcomed by both audiences: **the refined and the popular
[audiences] can both appreciate them** {ya su gong shang). One secret of
this dual appeal is the lyricists* trick of hiding sophisticated allusions in
plain language. An example is the fifth line of the song cited above: ''xin
zhong y(Hi liao bu ping shi" ["Where there is injustice that you feel in \ our
heart"]. The term hu ping has different meanings to different people* To

^ Translated by Arthur Waley in Cyril Birdh, ed., Anthc^ogy of Chinese Literature (New
York; Grove Press, 1965), poem 24, untitled.

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173

the less educated it means hu gongpitig, "unfair" or "unjust." To the more
informed, the same term is a clear reference to Han Yu's famous remark,
"All things in the unucrsc, when tiiey are not properly balanced, will cry
out in protest" {\Vu bu de qi ping ze mmg)\ The screenwriter has thus
unobtrusively compressed a complicated meditation on the ultimate moti-
vation of poets and thinkers into two words.*

The central theme of the film is beautifully spelled out in the last two
lines of this song. It is a film about grief and injustice in human life
{renjian bu ping, ''injustice in the world of men**). Such a theme must
certainly strike a chord in every human mind — but it is also in line with
the song-gathering theory {cai feng) developed by the elite political scien-
tists in ancient China. The writers of the play about Liu Sanjie were fully
aware that they were applying the techniques associated with this theory.^
Zheng Tianjian (who was, I suspect, directly involved in creating the ver-
sion of the play published in 1961) discussed the approach used in the film
in his article **On the Creation of Liu Sanjie.'"^ He cited examples in which
the lyricists skillfully used puns, parables, and narrative in ways both
entertaining and instructive, just as the anonymous poets of the Book of
Songs did. in Chinese history, politicians often fabricated ''folksongs** to
stir up resentment and resistance. But to the commoner singer a song has
quite different functions. Agreeing with the common people, the lyricists of
Liu Sanjie also present another song with the same elegant form and
intuitive logic:

Shan ge bu chang youchou duo
da lu hu zou cao cheng tvo

gang dao bu mo sheng hinwg xiu
xiongtang bu ting bet yao tuo

[If songs are not sung, sorrow will spread.

If roads are not walked upon, weeds will %vo\\.

If steel knives are not sharpened, rust will erode them.

If heads are not held high, backs will bend.)

' In **Song Meng Dongye xu" [Prefoce to poem sent to Meng Dongye], in Han Otangti
quanfi [Complete works of Han Yu|, (Taibei: Shangwu, 1967), jiun 5, 5:7-8.

* For the conscious use of this allusion, see Zheng Tianjian, "Lin Sjhiu- de chuangzuo"
[The creation ol Ltu Sanjiel, in Contcrciicc on Lin Sanjie, ed., Liu Sanjie U'cking: Zhongguo
xiju chubanshe [Chinese Theater Press], 1964), pp. 143-160.

^ See Mao's introduction to the Shifing in The Chinese Classics, vol. 4, The She King,
trans. James I.egge (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 1960), pp. 34-36, for an
explanation of the following terms for techniques used by ancient song writers: feng, fu, hi,
Xing.

^ He specifically refers to the fu-bi-xing approach; sec Zheng Tianjian, "Lm Semfie de
diuangzuo," p. 10.

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WAl-FONG LOH

Again the words arc simple and plain, linking common natural phenomena
to more sophisticated human feelings. The music has a serenity that deep-
ens the meaning ot the words.

Audiences responded warmly and enthusiastically to Liu Sjfijie, and it
became a great financial success for the distributor and for many theater
owners — even though the critics' responses were divided (see below). The
sound track could be heard in the streets of Hong Kong for months after
the film was first shown. Many viewers (in Hong Kong and elsewhere)
went to see the Him several times, hi China, sheet music with color pic-
tures of the star were distributed to collectors and music lovers. The ulti-
mate compliment came from the right-wing film producers of Hong Kong
and l aiwan. They imitated the music and songs of Liu Sanjie to produce a
rightist version called Shan'ge lian [Folksong love story]. This movie was
also a financial success and won a prize in Taibei.

Should Liu Sanfie be considered a product of folk or of elite culture? In
the 1960s, it was generally classified as the former; in faa, the film's
name, Liu Sanjie, was then almost synonymous with ''folksong'* {shan'ge).
Yet Peking opera, also once considered strictly a popular art, is today
widely accepted as classical. Movie makers can hire artists of the highest
caliber, such as only nobles used to be able to patronize, and make their
performances available to millions; in that sense, motion pictures tend to
popularize elite culture. Yet these same artists can be employed to perform
tales based on folk culture, thus making popular culture elite. The film Liu
Sanfie is an interesting synthesis of these trends, in which elements of elite
culture have been carefully and intentionally presented in popular forms.

THE CRITICISM OF LIU SANJIE

For all the care that went into its making, Liu Saujie did not satisfy all
its viewers. The first critical article appeared in Popular Cinema in Oc-
tober 1961. In it A Yi censured the Him for modernizing an ancient im-
mortal. Because I iu was presented in realistic form, "her behavior was
necessarily regulated by the principles of the real world, thus affecting her
movement, style, and nature to the extent that she looks more like a
contemporary woman than like a woman who lived in the ancient society
of the Zhuang people. She sounds like a progressive woman during our
land reform movement."'

In January 1962 three more critical articles appeared in the same jour-
nal. One author maintained that the image of Liu Sanjie was both histori-
cally and artistically true; the idealistic unage, he averred, had been suc-
cessfully joined to the realistic one. The other two critics agreed with A Yi

* Dazhoug dtattying, 1961, no. 10.

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175

that the immortal's image was spoiled by making her too revohitionary.
One charged that the peasants presented in the film were too confident
and radical. "Could the ideological consciousness of the ancients reach this
progressive level?" he asked. He found that only anachronism resulted
from the effort to make an ancient legeml serve a contemporary purpose.
The other critic also protested against the legendary lau San)ic being made
to look like a contemporary revolutionary. He would rather have seen her
flying in the clouds like a fairy.

Popular Cinema published six further articles on Liu Sanjie in the fol-
lowing issues. Four attacked the film and two defended it. One of the
latter denied that Liu Sanjie had been modernized, while the other sug-
gested that the audiences loved her precisely because she had been modern-
ized. In August 1962 two more hostile articles appeared in Popular Cin-
ema, One critic admitted that some viewers liked the film but only, he
maintained, for its esthetic aspects. This was the last comment on Liu
Sanjie to appear in Popular Cinema.

These criticisms may have affected the judges of Peking^s second Hun-
dred Flowers Film Awards (May 29, 1963). In the contest for Best Feature
Film, Liu Sanjie came in fourth, following Li Shuangshuang, Huaishu*
zhuang [Locust-tree manor], and Dong jin xuqu [Eastern march prelude].
It was not even nominated under Best Scriptwriter and Best Director.
However, the 180,000 voters who participated in a film festival sponsored
by Popular Cinema awarded Liu Sanjie three first prizes: Best Film Pho-
tography for cinematographer Guo Zhenting, Best Film Music for com-
poser Lei Zhenbang, and Best Art Design for Tong jingwcn and Zhang
Qiwang. The unusual fact that reports about the Hundred Flowers Film
Awards seldom mentioned Liu Sanjie suggests that the film was generally
considered problematic. It was mentioned only casually once, in reference
to "the diversified tastes of our audience." The creators of Liu Sanjie were
probably aware of its problems. When the Chinese Theater Press published
the play in 1961, Zheng Tianjian wrote, "Like other ancient cultural lega-
cies, Liu Sanjie has both honey and poison in it.**'" The scriptwriter*s
decision to allow Liu Sanjie to sing quite a few love songs and to make an
embroidered xiuqiu for her lover while she was struggling against the class
enemy probably cost the writer the votes of both the revolution-oriented
voters and the fans of romantic love stones. From this perspective, the film
is indeed a victim of the situation.

Judging from audience response, the films of the 1960s were better than
most of the films produced during the Cailtural Revolution. Critics
expressed themselves freely, and their expectations were high. Most of
those who wrote on Liu Sanjie found its realism distressmg; they wanted

^ 7hen% Tianjian, "L/m Sanjie dc chuangzuo," pp. 143-160.

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WAI-FONCi LOH

historical but not ideological accuracy in a legendary story. I hey especially
disliked the modernistic "struggle methods" [douzht'tii!; Idni^shi) used in
the film. They rejected ''stylistic esthetics" [xiniishi nici), insisting that a
historical ligure must live within his or her time. Some critics thought that
Liu should have had magic powers and that the film should have been
wittier and more colorful.

During the Cultural Revolution, Liu Sanjie was withdrawn from circu-
lation, as were all films of its period. Afterward, along with many others,
it was rereleased by the authorities and enjoyed great popularity because
of its mild and artistic approach to its revolutionary theme. Why have
audiences generally found the film satisfactory, but not the critics? Perhaps
the critics took the matter of motion pictures more seriously than the
audiences, and thus their expectations were higher. Also, in committing
themselves on paper, the critics may have been overly cautious, sometimes
even pretentious, on ideological issues. Yet at the same time, as intellectu-
als, they paid great respect to traditional content and forms and objected
to the imposition of a revolutionary theme on a legend.

Lhi Sanjie may well owe its popularity to the lovely scenery of Guilin,
to its beautiful folksongs, to the romantic legend of its heroine, and, most
of all, to the scriptwriter and the composer's ability to present these ele-
ments in a style that both educated and less educated audiences could
appreciate. These artists guided the traditional tale of Liu Sanjie into a new
stage of its existence. The critics' backwardness in recognizing the film's
value may be due to the novelty in the i960s both of the genre of the film
and of film criticism itself.

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EIGHT

The Film Industry
in the 1970s

Paul Clark

hlim enjoys perhaps the hirgcst popular audience ot all the ctiltiir il nudia
of contemporary Cdiina. More people, and a wider range ol people, watch
movies than read novels, see television, or attend stage performances.
I.enin's statement that "of all the arts, film is most nnportant to us" has
often heen quoted m the People's Republic' Given the significance at-
lached to cinema, it is not surprising that since 1949 much attention has
been paid to the development of the art. At the producing end, Cdiinese
film makers, like their colleagues in other parts of the world, are grouped
together with producers of what are generally regarded as elite forms of
art. The complexity and expense of their genre set film makers apart from
artists in the more indigenous perfonnuig arts. From its beginnings, the
film world of Shanghai had been distant in many senses from the local
opera of Shanxi, even if the films made in the revived industry of the late
1940s reached more people than Hua Guofeng's Shanxi opera troupe.
These cultural workers operated in two different realms; the insulated,
though cosmopolitan, elite world of the film studios, on the one hand, and
the popular atmosphere of the traditional opera stage and other popular
forms, on the other. The history of Chinese cinema since 1949 has been in
part an effort to integrate these two cultural realms.

The problems that faced film makers in the 1970s can be traced back
both to the early post-liberation attempts to effect such a synthesis be-
tween high and popular culture and to the tensions between film makers
and political leaders. By the mid-1960s, the generation of film makers who
had started their careers before Liberation were reaching the peak of their

I should like to thank Bonnie S. McDougall, discussions with whom helped shape many
of my ideas on Qiinese cinema.

' For a recent example, see quotation by He Ling in Dianying yisArw, January 1979, 1:26.

177

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178

PAUL CLARK

achievement. They were assisted by a group of younger artists trained,
with Soviet help, in the mid-1950s. Three films — Nongnu [Serfs, 1964], Li
Shuangshuang (1962), and Liu Sanjie [Third Sister Liu, 1962] — ^attest to
the level these film makers attained. By the time these films were released,
however, the outside arbiters of artistic and political orthodoxy were exam-
ining the film industry with more than usual attention. In 1966, the sup-
porters of Jiang Qing*s cultural policies in effect closed down the industry
for almost half a decade.

The first half of the 1970s saw the slow establishment of a new equilib-
rium between film makers and cultural-policy makers. The arrest, in Oc-
tober 1976, of Jiang Qing and some of her supporters was hailed by
Chinese film workers, old and young, as a "second Liberation.** Subse-
quently, however, the film industry had trouble matching the speed with
which its less popular sister arts re-established themselves. The political
climate allowed audiences and film makers to express their views and
through 1979 they continued to criticize harshly the more recent products
of the film industry, often motivated by hangovers of "Gang-ness**
{bangqi) in the new films.

As the decade drew to a close, the Gang ot Hour years were increasingly
put into perspective. Film makers and, to a lesser extent, their audience
came U) realize that many of the artistic and political problems facing
C^hinese cinema were of deeper origin. With older film makers returning to
prominent positions of artistic and managerial leadership, the historical
continuities of Chinese cinema became clearer. The problematical relation-
ships between film and life and between film and politics had certainly
been distorted in the period from 1966 to 1976. But perhaps they had
never been adequately addressed by Chinese film makers. By the end of the
1970s, a renewed urge to face up to these problems had appeared, particu-
larly among the new generation of cinema workers.

THE IMPACT OF THE CULTURAL REVOLUTION

To gain a proper imderstanding of developments after 1976, we must
first assess the impact of the triumvirate of Jiang Qing, Yao Wenyuan, and
23iang Chunqiao and of their supporters on Chinese film making. In view
of the accusations against them that filled film magazines and other print
media during the year after their arrest, this should be an easy task. In
reality, it is not. The difficulty partly stems from the seemingly haphazard
or arbitrary nature of their cultural autocracy in the film world. Such
absence of consistency compounds the problem of assessing the impact of
the Cultural Revolution. But a careful reading of accounts of studio activi-
ties before October 1976 tends to cast doubt on the presumption that that
month was a sudden turning-point. As in other fields of literature and the

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THt FILM INDUS I RY IN 1 HE 1970s

179

arts, changes in the film world had started before 1976 and have coiuin-
ued to he slow and cumulative.

This is not to underestimate the effects on CJhinese cinema of Jiang Qing
and her associates. Almost all feature films produced hefore 1966 were
withdrawn from release at the start of the Cultural Revolution. No new
feature films were apparently made until the early 197()s, and these were
merely celluloid versions of some of the model theatrical works [yung-
banxi). Speaking m 1978, Yuan Wenshu, the reinstated secretary of the
Chinese Film Association, compared the gang's policies to the "three all'*
{son guang) campaigns of the Japanese in North China. He claimed that the
film industry was turned into a no man*s land and that between 1966 and

1973 only one feature film was made.^ In January 1973, at a meeting of the
Politburo with cultural personnel. Premier Zhou Enlai spoke of the need for
feature films. But the response to this call was disappointing, due to further
interference from the supporters of Jiang Qing. The works produced before

1974 consisted of film versions of yangbanxi or remakes as model films
iyanghan dianying) of such pre-Cultural-Revolution stories as Nanzheng
beizhan [Fighting south and north] and Pingyuan youfidui [Guerrillas of the
plain].^ In 1974, with the release of the children's film Shanshande hongxing
[Sparkling red star], the pace of film making quickened.

From these changes it appears that by 1973 some members of the older
generation of film makers were back at work. Sparkling Red Star was
jointly produced by two successful directors of the 1950s and early 1960s,
Li Jun and Li Ang. Both had been criticized during the Cultural
Revolution.^ The return of such artists to the studios suggests that the
Gang of Four was losing ettectiveness or was deliberately relaxing its grip
on film production in response to the need for more feature films. Reliance
had to be placed on those with film experience.

The events of 1975 were at once a reflection of both the destructive
influence of the Gang of Four and of its increasing weakness. The latter
trend may have precipitated the Gang's more hysterical efforts at control.
In 1975 it launched an "antiguild" [fan banghang) effort in film circles. A
particular target in that year was the recently completed film Haixia, the
story of the pre- nnd post-I ihcration experiences of nn orphnn pirl in n
South China tishmg village. The movie was produced at the Pekmg Film
Studios under the direction of Xie 7 ieli, who had been severely criticized in
1964-1965. The antiguild efforts seem to have sprung from the realiza-
tion that film makers would not remain docile producers of model films.

^ Renmm dianymg, 1978, 6:3. This calculation exdudes yati^MmxL The one feature film

was Pingyuan youfitbti [Guerrillas of the plain].

' Ibid.; see also part 12 1 1 4" 1 - 1 ot a Htteen-part series on post-1949 Chinese cinema
by Xueyan and Litao, in Nutthei/i 91 (January 1978): 45-50.

* Renmitt dianying, 1978, 2-3:47.

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PAUL CLARK

The campaign was, therefore, aimed at wiping out the "cliquish system of
the director as the central figure." Before the Cultural Revolution (and
since 1976), directors had on occasion done much of the planning for a
film, often findnig the story, helpmg produce the script, and working out
costs. These powerful directors of the older generation threatened the
Gang of Four's influence in the film world when production started under
way again in 1975.*

Haixia had been made by a production group under Xie*s leadership.
Jiang Qing and Zhang Chunqiao are said to have written critiques of the
film in order to provide ammunition for their supporters in the Ministry of
Culture. These latter made several visits to the studios in an attempt to put
pressure on the makers of Haixia. The producers showed the film to Zhou
Enlai and appealed to Mao Zedong, who declared in late July 1975 that
copies of director Xie*s letter complaining of Ministry pressure should be
distributed to members of the Politbiux). Even so, the film's release soon
after brought more criticism from the Gang of Four/

Three observations arise from an examination of the troubles of Haixia.
First, the attack on the film appears quite arbitrary; at least it does not
focus on the merits of the film itself, although Jiang Qing argued that the
heroine looked like a city girl and that the film did not make class struggle
its key theme." Generally, however, the criticism concentrated on the
people who had made the film. The same is perhaps true of the critiques of
another major target of the Gang, Chmngye [The pioneersl. The makers
rather than the merits of the film were also, arguably, at the center of the
post- 1976 criticism of Juelie [Breaking with old ideas], a so-called "Gang**
film released in early 1976. Despite some atypical character development
(an mitially "bad" teacher undergoes conversion), Hrcjkini^ icitl'' Old
Ideas was taken to he a him made to the Gang of Four s prescription.
More recent listmgs of such movies, however, do not include Breakini^,
which was withdraw n from release in 1977 when new educational policies
very different from those advocated in the film were introduced.'*

The second observation is that all the reported criticisms of Haixia in
1975—1976 seem to have come not from the Peking studio itself but from

^ This account is drawn irom Renmin diaityiHgt 1978, 5:16-17 and 1978, 1:12-15. See

also Renmw dunymg, 1977, 10:6-8: l'r6, 7:2H-32, and the filmscript in 1976, 7: ^9-64.
On the role ot directors, see China Rec onstructs 28, 8 (August 1979): 8. Xie's 1964 film was
Zaochun eryue IHarly spring ui February).

^ Renmin dianying, 1978, 1:12-15; 1978,2-3:30-37.

' Renmin dianymg, 1978, 2-3:30-37.

* Renmin dianyirtg, 1976, 5, published on 27 September 1976 before the arrest of the
Gang of Four, contained the first half of the filmscript of Chuanfsye, pp. 32-64. The attacks
on the film are reported in Renmin dtanytng, October 1976, 6:16—33. For a general account
of the Gang of Fdur*s control of film making, see Renmin dianying, 1978, 8:1-5. For a
nonlisting of Juelie^ see Renmin dianyingt 1978, 6:4.

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181

outside, from the Ministry of CXjIturc. Such cases as this of f/j/xw suggest
that the cultural triumvirate headed by Jiang Qing had few followers
among the people actively uivolved in film production. While by 1979
other things had changed, and the whole system of rilm production was
being re-cxaniuied, film workers agam complained of obstruction from
above, from the Ministry and local agencies.

The third observation occasioned by the Haixia episode is the apparent
continuity of personnel in the Chinese film world in the 1970s — even if
few movies were produced initially. Wang Yang of the Peking studio
argued that, in the ten years of the Cultural Revolution, no older film
makers matched their pre-1966 levels of artistry. Some middle-aged direc-
tors and some young film makers who were fresh graduates of the Film
and Drama Academies had not produced a single film by 1979. Wang
Yang also pointed out that before 1977, although most filmscripts written
since the Cultural Revolution had not been filmed, many older scenarists
were engaged in writing, sometimes under orders from the Gang of Four.'
Thus, while there was a substantial change, or second Liberation, in the
atmosphere at the studios, the personnel remained, apparently, largely the
same after October 1976 as they had been in the first half of the 1970s.

The lack of substantial change in personnel after 1976 parallels the
apparent absence of real change in most of the films made after the fall of
the Gang of Four.'* Film magazines in late 1978 and in 1979 emphasized
particularly the problems of the post-Gang feature films, while saying less
than before about the Gang itself. A monthly section in Renmin ribao
[People's daily], which had more authority and a wider circulation than all
the fiUn journals put together, was given over to discussions of **What*s
wrong with the movies?** and "How can films be made better?"

The irony of post-Gang cinema emerges perhaps most sharply in the nine
films that depict the struggle against the Gang of Four while using artistic
methods close to those endorsed by the Gang itself," Viewers complained
about these thrillers' simplistic nature, which they compared to the com-
plexity of their own experiences under the Gang. It is perhaps easier to be
simplistic about the pre-Liberation past, of which most Hlmgoers now have
not liad hrst-hand experience. The lingering influence of the Gang of Four

' Guangming ribao, 2.? March 1979, p. 3; Renmin dtatiying, 1978,4:61—63. In IVd rhe
Gang of Four had completed eight hhiis about the struggle against "capitalist roaders,"
thirteen more were m production, and thirty-nine were being written, tor a total of sixty
films: Retimin dianying, 1978, 8:2.

Until the summer of 1979, no feature films made after October 1976 appear to have
been publicly released outside of the People's Republic, not even in Hong Kong. An exception
is Dahe benliu, shown in the United States in June 1979 at the Workshop on Contemporary
Chinese l iterature and the Performuig Arts, in November 1979, a Chinese film festival held
in Tokyo included three new feature films.

" The films ace listed in Dianymg yishu, 1979, 1:34.

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PAUL CLARK

on post- 1976 cinema is felt in three areas: scripts, characterization, and,
more broadly, the tension between realism and Hlmism.

Scripts

With the re-orientation of film after October 1976, scripts were at a
premium. It usually takes from two to four years for a story idea to turn
into a feature film,'" but the film-starved audiences could not wait that
long. Many of the over sixty feature films produced after October 1976
were shot from scripts written a few years earlier. Baoziwan zhdndoii
[Battle of Leopard Valley], about a Nanniwan-like production movement
in the War of Resistance, was released in the spring of 1978. The film-
script, based on a play of the same title from 1964, had been drafted in
1973. It went through ten rewrites in four years, the last of which ex-
tended from March 1977 to January 1978.'^ A similar process produced
Dahe benliu [The great river rushes on], which starred China's most popu-
lar actress, Zhang Ruifang. The film was released to early critical acclaim
in 1979. The first of its two parts was based on a screenplay that the
creator of Li Shuangshuang, Li Zhun, had written in 1975. Within weeks
of its release. The Great River Rushes On began to be criticized for resid-
ual Gang-ness and for its lack of realism.*^

The need (or new scripts was voiced by the film publications in 1978. A
new edition of Xia Yan*s major work on film adaptation, Xie dianying
fuben fige wenti [Some scriptwriting problems; orig. pub. 1959], was ex-
cerpted in Renmitt dianying [People's cinema].^^ The same magazine car-
ried several articles on scriptwriting in its October/November 1978 issue.
In early 1979, there was a total of only forty or so properly trained
scriptwriters in the seven feature film studios. The studio leaders called for
more, especially younger, personnel to be trained.'^ About half of all
scripts were submitted by amateur writers from outside the studios.

Characterization

Closely related to the problem of finding scripts was the question of
how to portray characters in the new films. Here, too, there was continuity
with the immediate past: both periods had difficulty creating believable
heroes and villains. In a long article published in September 1978, the

So He Ling clamis in Reumtn dianying, 1978, 4:6.
" Renmin dianying, 1978, 4:14—17. For another example, see Renmin dianying, 1978,
8:13-14.

Renmin dianying, 1978, 6:5. For the later ^ntK.iI reaction against flu film, see below.
The stories of rhc nvo parts of the film can be found in Renmin dianying, 1977, 5-6:65-96
and 1977, 7:3b-b4.

" Renmin dianying, 1978, 4:22-27; 1978, 5:18-26.
Renmm ribao, 12 March 1979, p. 3.

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THE FILM INDUSTRY IN THE 1970s

183

review group of the Film Section of the Ministry of C^ulture declared that
the inthicnce of the Gang of Four was still "extremely deep." Specifically,
the group disapproved oi superhcroes, with their clean clothes and other
Gang accoutrements, and of the tendency to create "meathead enemies**
{ctiohiU) diren), or to replace the "capitalist roaders" of earlier scripts with
"Gang followers" in the new productions.' The heroine of Nanjicmg chun
zao [Spring comes early on the southern border], one Peking tilmgoer
complained, indulged in unnecessary heroics. In the best Jiang Qing tradi-
tion, she easily persuades the angry masses of the wisdom of her acts with
a few well-chosen sentences.** Chinese writers after 1976 found it difficult
to create good charaaers with depth, instead of cut-outs whose general-
ized features serve merely to indicate their rank — ^worker, poor peasant, or
soldier.

In an interview conducted early in 1978, Xia Yan called for characters
with an internal momentum and integrity, be they good, bad, or middling. He
pointed out that most people in real life are not able to express their heartfelt
feelings; film characters, he said, should reflect this attribute." Some progress
was made in this direction. Julan [The mighty wave] has a hero who gets
angry twice, which was a first in the experience of one letter writer.^^ Two
members of the Huangpu district film-review group in Shanghai praised the
portrayal of the heroine in Nii jiaotongyuan [The female liaison agent], in
contrast to earlier heroines, whom everyone (except the enemy) could in-
stantly identify as Communist Party workers, the woman in this film was
more subtly portrayed. For instance, she acts in a wisely subdued manner
when one of her comrades is killed. Such restraint in presenting characters
helped inv(^lve the audience with the heroine and her task.^'

Believable, rounded characters may become more common as more
films include "middle characters," in accordance with a major post- 1976
shift in artistic themes that recalls similar efforts in the early 1960s.
Movies based on their characters' rc-cducation, such as Li Shuangsbtiang
(1962), rather than on confrontation between "the enemy and ourselves,"
should help put heroes and villains in their proper places. More compact
and man.igeablc stories may also provide a more suitable context for the
sustained porrrnyal and dcvclopmciu of characters. It could be argued, ft)r
example, that the juxtaposed portraits of Haixia as pre- 1949 orphan and
as a contemporary militiawoman substituted, in 1975, for the real char-
acter growth that Xia Yan and others are now seeking.

*^ Renmm dianying, 1978, 9:2-3.

Reitmin dtottying, 1978, 8:13.
" Renmin dianying, 1978, 2-3:19.

Renmin dianying, 1978, 2-3:59-60. The filmscript is in Renmm ditmying, 1977,
10:26-64.

" Remm dianying, 1978, 5:13-14.

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FAUL CLARK

With respect to characters, one new development deserves brief men-
tion. Part 2 of The Great River Rushes On features actors portraying
Zhou Enhii and Mao Zedong. Such look-aHkes began to appear also in
stage productions. I here may have been sonic controversy over the lIcli-
sion to nicludc ihese historical rigures m rictional films. Such a debate is
implied in an article on the film in People's Daily that is subtitled **ln
approval of the portrayal of Premier Zhou in The Great River Rushes
On"^ Certainly, it cotild weaken the move toward believable characters,
for audiences might well be distracted by an urge to assess the degree of
resemblance and by admiration for the obvious artifice involved in such
portrayals. Watching Zhou Enlai, in The Great River Rushes On, address
the masses in the pouring rain without benefit of umbrella, this viewer
may not have been alone in wondering when the actor's eyebrows would
start to melt down his face. These portrayals may undermine the efforts of
the other actors in the films. On the other hand, the appearance of a
historical figure may lend credibility, at least to the events presented. In-
deed, Zhou Enlai's tour of the water-conservation projea in this film is
accompanied by the kind of music that Chinese television news uses in
covering the meetings of national leaders with state visitors. But such
intrusions of documentary style into an otherwise fictional story are poten-
tially inhibiting. The development of conventions for the portrayal of real
people in films could conflict with the creation of more ambiguous fic-
tional characters. Such portrayals of real people in films and plays may be
a short-lived phenomenon.

Realism Versus Vilmism

These concerns over scripts and characters relate ultimately to a major
question for C^hinese, and indeed for all, film makers, the problem of
realism. Much has been written criticizing the theories of the Gang of
Four, especially the principle of "three prominences" [san tuchul A film
or anv other work of art is supposed to place concentric emphasis on good
characters, on the story's heroes, and on the main hero. This theory and
other such rather mechanical devices gave feature films a standardized
appearance. One movic-magazine reader characterized Ciang and some
post-Gang films in this way: "Women correct, men wrong; political
workers right, production workers wrong; Party branch secretary right,
factory manager and production team leader wrong." Merely seeing the
beginning of such a film would enable a viewer to predict the end."

Since the fall of the Gang of Four, film makers have addressed the

" Dianytng yishu, 1979, 3:16; Duzhong dtanymg, 1979, 1:4-5; Renmm ribao, 31 Janu-
ary 1979, p. 3.

" Renmin dianymg, 1978, 1:14.

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THE HLM INDUS I RY IN THE 197Us

185

problem of film realism. The most truitful of such discussions have cm-
phasr/c(1 the inherent characteristics of fihn and of fihii's rendering of
reaHt\ . \\ hat is being sought is not an impossible celluloid copy of reality
but a new connection between art and lite that recognizes the peculiarities
of the medium/^ Instead of Jiang Qing's "Start from the political line"
{cong liixian chufa), there is now another slogan, "Start from life" [cong
shenghuo chufa) — a point of departure likely to generate less stereotyped
films. Yuan Wenshu, a realist about realism, renewed the call of the 1950s
for a combination of revolutionary realism {xianshizhuyi) with romanti>
cism {langmanzhuyi); this synthesis, he argued, was approved by Mao and
Marx and meshes with Chinese literary tradition.^

With these concerns came an increasing emphasis on cinematic art,
particularly in 1979 with the vocal emergence of a new generation of film
makers. This group has had less grounding in theater, whether traditional
or modern, than its predecessors. Its emphasis on ''filmism" (i.e., the use
of techniques unique to film) was perhaps also a natural reaction from the
ten years during which those in control of cultural policy had considered
cinema merely an adjunct of the stage. Staginess — ^the reliance on conven-
tions derived from the stage that do not belong in film — ^had existed in
Chinese cinema before the Cultural Revolution and had been exacerbated
under the opera-centered cultural regime of the Gang of Four. Films made
after 1976 were hailed in many reviews by film-magazine writers and
readers for their use of specifically cinematic techniques to portray char>
acters, concretize situations, and move audiences.^*

A scene in The Great River Rushes On illustrates an awareness of the
problem of stage-inspired set pieces in a fluid medium like film. Onboard a
fishing boat, the heroine Li Mai relates the bitterness of her life before
19.18 to Commander Qin and Song Min of the New Fourth Army. Unlike
many such scenes in earlier films, there is an earthy humor, well conveyed
by Zhang Ruifang's performance, in parts of the recollection, in earlier
films, Commander Qin would have stitfened slightly, looked inspired,
clenched one fist, and, gazing at an indeterminate point over the camera
lens, told Li Mai that now the Chinese people have Chairman Mao and
ihe Communist Party to lead them against the old order that had caused
such misery. Commander Qin does give this standard speech to Li Mai,
but not into the camera. As if embarrassed by such a stock situation,
director Xie Tieli suddenly takes the camera outside the cabin. We see

^* See, for example, Dazhong dianying, 1979, 1:2—3.

in an article titled "Zhiiyi /hcnshi" [Pay attention to reality], Renmin dianying, 1978,
5:3. On realism, see also Rcnmm Junxini,'. 1978, 4:14; 1978, 6:26; and 1978, 9:1-5.

^ See, for example, Daii)ong dianytng, 1979, 2:22-23; Gnangmmg rtbao, 7 April 1979,
p. 3.

uopyiiyhiOG maiuiial

PAUL CLARK

Commander Qin giving the speech as a small figure in the Hghtcd doorway
of the cabin addressing Li Mai within. The standard speech is thus pre-
sented indirectly and in a context that places less emphasis on the individ-
ual giving it.

A re-emphasis on filmic art is clear in The Great River Rushes On.
Films such as Serfs (1964) had given promise of such artistry, but the
promise had been lost for ten years. The opening shots of Great River,
which fill the screen with the silt-laden river and the bare shoulders and
muscles of a river boatman, make a startling departure from earlier films.
Unfortunately, this stress on muscle power or on the river is not taken up
as a motif for the rest of the film. In the same scene, the relationship
between two young people is suggested visually by their joining each other
to pull on parallel ropes to raise die sail of their boat.

The story involves a village that is flooded by the Yellow River in 1938;
the change of this village's name to Tieniu ("Iron Ox") in the revised script
(the original script was written before October 1976) allows for the use of
an ancient statue of a cow to lend a sense of place to the film. Superstitious
villagers are briefly shown making offerings to the statue as the flood
waters draw near. Toward the end of Part 1, children returning from exile
to the village start to play around the cow, which is up to its neck in silt.
I his sense of locality (which is confusingly absent in, for cm m pie, two
films of Zuff40, a, muqin [My (X>untry, oh, my mother] and Feng-

shuwan [Maple tree valley]) helps reinforce the theme of the film: the
twenty-year struggle of the \ illagers to take control — from the river, the
Japanese, and the landlords — of their village.

Film's ability to evoke tension, which is often downplayed or lost in
Chinese films made before 1976, is used to good effect here. When the
young fisherman races back from the river to warn the villagers that the
dikes are about to be blown up, music, camerawork, and editing all com-
bine without the usual haste to get maximum effect from his journey.

Part 2 of the film exploits the freedom of transition possible in film,
which is familiar to Western but novel to Chinese audiences. Immediately
after Li Mai meets Mao Zedong in a quiet, reverential scene with few
people, the Him cuts to thunderous applause and a shot of row upon row
of joyful faces at a huge meeting. Li Mai has just reported her encounter
with Mao to the conference.

Cheng Yin, a scenarist and director for over thirty years, noted in 1979
that in its sixty-year history Chinese cinema had still not eschewed the
stage's influence.^ In The Great Rwer Rushes On, released in 1979, set-
pieces create a staginess at odds with the atmosphere of much of the work.
Many scenes feature one actor addressing a large crowd. Such tableaux are

ReHtnin ribaOt 24 April 1979, p. 3.

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THE FILM INDUSTRY IN THt 19705

187

perhaps unavoidable, given scripts that require these speech-giving scenes.
But the impression of stnginess is often compounded by the directors'
efforts to place extras in the crowds in artful ways. The art seems more
often drawn from the stage than from him experience.

The impression of set-pieces is sometmies reinforced by sudden changes
from one major scene to another. The instant transition between Li Mai's
encounter with Mao and her report to the conference, referred to above, is
different because it is part of a single episode and underlines the impor-
tance to all of the meeting with Mao. Usually, however, a major episode
lacks linkage with the following such episode, just as conventional stage
dramas present a series of large, self-contained scenes. There are occa-
sional visual links between episodes, as when a shot of a starving refugee
gnawing on dry grain is followed by one showing Japanese businessmen
cutting a cake or as when a brief scene in which Li Mai and Song Min are
lying on a kang discussing Song's possible marriage is paralleled in the
next scene by the village landlord seated on an opium bed. But a tendency
toward a stagelike exposition, large scene by large scene, prevails in the
Him.

One viewer's contribution to the discussion in 1979 of ** What's wrong
with the movies?" frequently referred to the playlike nature of many recent
films, as seen particularly in their excessive use of dialogue.^** It has been
suggested that the acting techniques need to be adjusted to the needs of the
medium. The cast of The Great River Rushes On went to work each day
repeating the words: **We don't want a play. Don't perform.**^'' Script-
writers also need to write witii the special characteristics of the medium in
mind, including its freedom of temporal transition. Cheng Yin drew atten-
tion to the interdependence of these twin concerns of realism and hlmism.
He suggested that the way to solve the probleins of gcneralism and false-
ness in the new films was for Him makers to "start out from life" and to
use the characteristics of their art to their fullest extent.^^

FILM RELEASES AND PUBLICATIONS

Chinese film mnkers gained some respite from their audience's impa-
tience with the standards of many post-Ciang feature films by rereleasing
films made before 1966. i his was part of an effort to re-establish connec-
tions with their audience, connections that the misplaced theatricality ot
Jiang Qing had all but destroyed. In the two years before January 1979,

Dazhong dianymgt 1979, 3:6-9. On dialogue, see also Kenmin dianying, 1978, 2-

3:57-5 s.

^' Rcnnim rtbao, 27 January 1979, p. i; see also Zhang Kuitang m Dazhong dianying,
1979, 1:5.

Renmm ribao^ 24 April 1979, p. 3.

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188

PAUL CLARK

three hundred HIms made before 1966 were rereleased, while another
hundred were awaiting distribution.'" Such films showed what an earlier
generation in the industry had achieved. They also served to illustrate, to
both audiences and film workers, some of the strengths and weaknesses of
Chinese cinema/ l uriher, tilms made betore 1949 were shown for the
first time in almost two decades at the Spring Festival of 1979.^^

This effort to satisfy the audience's interest in the medium also lay
behind dianges in film publications over these three years. Beginning in
late 1977, more information was provided about film personalities — ^in-
cluding writers and directors as well as actors — ^and about current produc-
tions. The January 1978 issue of People's Cinema featured New Year*s
resolutions from thirteen film figures, a device also used before 1966, that
serves to legitimize the cinema by conveying the film workers' awareness
of their shortcomings, to tell audiences of works in progress, and to an-
nounce the reappearance of several old figures.^'^ In the same issue of the
magazine, readers* letters started to appear on a regular basis. The debate
over cinema was not just for the makers of films; film viewers were also
being encouraged to take part.

In January 1979 People's Cinema, which had been published since
March 1976, was replaced by three periodicals. The popularizing function
of the magazine was taken up by Dazhong dianying [Popular cinema],
which included more material on films in progress. For example, the Feb-
ruary 1979 issue contained reports from each feature film studio on its
current productions and plans.'' This magazine had the largest readership
(an estimated 100 million by 1982) of any periodical in China. Serving as
a vehicle for more theoretical discussions, which began to increase in
volume and incisiveness at the end of 1978, was Dianying yishu [Film
artsj, which had ceased publication in 1966. More specialized was the
revived Dicinyini^ jishu (Film technique], which carried articles on technical
aspects of film production, processing, and projection. In addition to these
national magazines, Shanghai, Peking, and other localities published such
periodicals as Dumym^ chuangzHo (Film writing | and Dianying xinzuo
[New Him works] that featured film stories and scripts [dtanying wenxue

" Renmin riboo, 27 January 1979, p. j?.

^' See, for example, references to the filmism of Nonpiu in Renmin dianying, 1978, 2-
3:57-58.

" Dazhong dianying, 1979, 2:12-13; Rennm rS>ao, 23 January 1979, p. 3; Dazhong
dianying, 1979, 4:7-8. A new film, Baomifude <iiimgsheng [Gunfire in the security section), is

set in an urban context of the 1940s: Dazhong dianying, 1979, 4:14.

" Rcmnm dianying, I97S, 1:^— H. From July 19'''', Reuinin diiViying's photo sections
began to list the directors, major actors, and other personnel involved in featured HIms. hrom
November, actors were identified with the parts they played.
Dazhong dianying, 1979, 2:3-5.

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THE FILM INDUS I RY IN THE 1^70$

189

}u{)en).^^ The last three periodicals were initially bimonthly. By the end of
the decade, sonu thing like the pre-Cultural-Revolution Hlm-publishing
scene had been re-csiablishcd.

There were other signs oi progress in the restoration of the industry, hi
June 1978 the Chniese Film Personnel Association was revived and then
superseded by the Chinese Film Artists' Association.^^ Other meetings of a
formal and informal nature were publicized. In March 1979, for example,
the heads of feature film studios met in Peking, where they discussed the
problem of **What's wrong with the movies** with relative candor.^'

As well as products of their own film industry made before 1966,
Chinese audiences after 1977 had an opportunity to see a greater variety
of foreign films. In August and October 1978, for example, Romanian and
Japanese film weeks were held in Peking and fifteen other major cities.^'
The Japanese week consisted of three films: a thriller called The Chase
{Tsuiho; Zhuibu), an animal story about fox cubs {Kori no kofi; Hulide
gushi), and Sandakan {Sandakan hachi Bokyo; Wangxiang), Charlie
Chaplin's Modem Times began playing to packed houses; in some
theaters, showings started at six in the morning. Some foreign films shown
before 1966, like The Million Pound Banktiotey were rerelcascd. During
the Spring Festival of 1979, to mark the establishment of full Chinese-U.S.
relations, two other American films — ^Peckinpah's Convoy and the science-
fiction film Future World — were shown.

These showings of foreign films served several purposes for audiences
and for film makers. To the genera! audiences diey offered a view of the
rest of the world. Future World, for example, was cited as an illustration
of the rich creativity of the American people and of their well-advanced
fascination with science.*' Sanddkan #^?. the story of a Japanese woman
sent in the late Meiji period to work in a brothel in Borneo, provoked a lot
of questions about its suitability for young (Chinese viewers. The partici-
pants in a discussion printed in the first issue of Popular Cmcma con-
cluded that the film broadened the horizons ot adolescents and provided
them with a useful class education." For film makers, seeing more foreign
films was an opportunity to observe a range of new styles and ways of

^ Diattying wettxue juben ate not shooting scripts but hybrid literary versions of what
will be or has been filmed. Publication in this form reflects a continuing tendency to regard
dnemn ns ;i lesser branch of literature.

^ Kenmtti dianymg, 1978, 6:6.

Guangming ribao, 23 March 1979, p. 3. In 1979 the major feature film studios were:
Peking, Shanghai, August 1st (PLA), Changchun, Xi'an, Emei (Sichuan), and Pearl River
(Canton).

Remum dhmymg. 197S, S:9; Renmin ribao, 2S October p. 6.

Renmin ribao, 23 January 1979, p. 3. A reader "s comparison ot Dahe benitu with
foreign fihns can be found in Dazbong dianying, 1979, 4:12.
Dazhong diofiying, 1979, 1:10-12.

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190

PAUL CLARK

treating subjects. SLUuiiikiift #<S's portrayal of the past formed a welcome
contrast to the tendency to formalize, almost to prettiK , the oppression of
prercvolutionary society.^" Certam chase or Hght sci^juenccs m the Chmese
spy thrillers made after 1976 apparently reflect a growing acquaintance
with more recent foreign work. An article in the first issue of Film Arts
discussed the development of montage with references to Western studies
on film theory, perhaps for the benefit of the younger film workers who
lack much training in film theory/^ Articles on the Hollywood dnematog-
rapher James Wong, on world film festivals, and on the Oscar awards
appeared in Popular Cinema in early 1979.^ The opinions of foreign film
makers were solicited and publicized. Felix Greene, who had made docu-
mentaries in China in the early 1970s, presented the criticisms many West-
em viewers had of Chinese films in a discussion session in early 1979/^
Joint ventures were also mooted. The first of these was a Japanese histori-
cal drama with a Buddhist theme, Tianping zhi meng (Tempyo no iraka;
The roof tile of Tempyo). Directed by the maker of Sandakan #5 with a
Chinese assistant director, it was filmed on location in Luoyang, Yang-
zhou, and elsewhere.'*^

DEBATES ON LONG-TERM PROBLEMS

Despite this flurry of publishing and film screening, at the end of the
decade large problems remained for the Chinese film industry. With the
new year 1979, film workers began to tackle these problems more directly,
in their own journals and in new spapers with wider circulation. The Ciang
of Four years were set in a broatlcr perspective antl more long-term ques-
tions addressed. What was earlier identified as Gang-ness was increasingly
looked on as perhaps endemic problems for CJiinese literature and art,
including cinema. As to the t|iiestion of artistic style, the issue most often
discussed w as realism, the relationship between art and life. 1 he issue for
film production itself was democracy, the relationship between art and
politics.

The issue of democracy was closely intertwined with another problem,
an apparent tension between generations in the industry. In this respect
film circles reflected a trend in society at large where, particularly since

One reviewer praised the way the film involved its audience: Renmtn dianying, 1978,
12:7-9.

*^ Dianying yishu, 1979, 1:50-54. One young scriptwriter, pointing out the weakness of
theoretical training, asked diac more foreign films be made available: Daxhong dianying,

1979, ^:7.

^ Dazhoni; cihwvhit;, 1^79, 2:28-29. 32; 1979, 3:30-31. A Chinese delegation attended
the Cannes Him testival in May 1979.
*^ Dazhong dianying, 1979, 3:10-1 1, 5.

^ Dazhong dianyingt 1979, 10: pictorial section; Renmin rihao, 9 December 1979, p. 6.

THE FILM INDUSTRY IN IH£ 19708

191

1976, youthful impatience or ambition has been frustrated by the return of
older figures to more prominent positions. Ahhough the arrest of the Gang
of Four in 1976 was not apparently tollowed by a major changeover in
personnel, film artists who had been prominent before the Cultural Revo-
lution have much greater influence now than in the years immediately
before 1976. Young film workers do not appear to have been demoted but
many seemed to feel that the older leadership was not taking advantage of
the new opportunities for cinema.

The younger film makers appear to have real grounds for complaint.
From 1977 to 1979, of 140 graduates in acting sent to film studios, less
than half had a chance to perform. At one studio, most of the more than
twenty graduates sent there had already abandoned acting as a career.
Young direaors, at last given an opportunity to make films, were fur-
nished with comparatively inexperienced cinematographers, designers, and
other specialists.^^ Presumably, the older, more experienced assistants
worked for the more established direaors.

Given this situation, it is perhaps not surprising that the younger film
workers and viewers took a bolder stand on the relation of art to politics,
a topic that exercised film circles in the first half of 1979. It was a key
theme in a major article, ''Wenyi minzhu yu dianjring yishu** [Artistic
democracy and film art], which was published under the heading *'Dian-
ying weishenme shangbuqu?" [What's wrong with the movies?] in People's
Daily in January 1979. The article was written by two young film
workers, Peng Ning and He Kongzhou. Art is the product of personal
creation, Peng and He wrote, and can serve politics in a variety of ways.
Art rests on pohtics but is not equivalent to it. There is a need to foster
independent creativity and artistic individuality and to broaden the range
of subjects portrayed by film makers, who should be encouraged to work
in a freely collaborative manner.^"

Discussion in the industry on these systemic problems of Chinese cin-
ema concentrated on both self-imposed and bureaucratic inhibitions. Zhou
Enlai had called attention to these problems almost two decades earlier, in
a speech that he delivered in June 1961 to a forum on literature, art, and
films and that was published in the January 1979 issue of I i!m Arts and in
other cultural publications/'' The phrase "a lot of mothers-in-law" (popo
duo) was used to characterize the current bureaucracy and film censorship.
Unlike novels and plays, new films faced a great many obstacles [i^uankii)
before release. One young film maker who had worked in the industry for
only a year called for the elimination of bureaucratic methods of manage*

See artide by die editors in Dazhong dioHying, 1979, 4:3; Renmm nbao, 12 March
1979, p. 3.

Renmm rthao, 21 Januar>' 1979, p. 3; Dianying ytshu, 1979, 1:28-33.
^ Dianying yishu, 1979, 1:1-14, csp. p. 9.

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PAUL CLARK

mcnt. He accused sonic leaders, who were often laymen in matters of art,
of wantonly interfering in the writing of scripts and in their production.
Between script and release a hini had to survive up to ten assessments by
the studio and tiie cultural leadership. lie proposed giving local and pro-
duction sections more self-determination. Otherwise, the lifeless films so
resented by audiences would continue to be made.^^' Peng and He, the
youthful authors of ** Artistic Democracy and Film Art,** directed the thrust
of their argument against this cautiousness that characterized many film
personnel. Many in positions of cultural leadership looked on the current
policy of openness {fang) not as a long-term opportunity for growth but as
a temporary expedient to be followed by renewed ''control" {shou).^^

Two general ways to reformulate the relationship between art and poli-
tics in film were suggested in the first half of 1979. One involved restruc-
turing the industry, the other, a re-examination of the history of Chinese
cinema since t949.

Restructuring was first publicly suggested by Peng Ning and He Kong-
zhou in January. They concluded their article on artistic democracy and
film with concrete proposals for the systematic reform of the methods of
film production. The Film Section of the Ministry of Culture should boldly
take up the training of talent. Film studios and artists' collectives {chuang-
zuo iiti)y like similar groups set up in 1957 in the first Hundred Flowers
period,^^ should cooperate in making films and should enjoy financial
independence. To democratize the running of the studios, representative
assemblies of film employees should assess and supervise the cadres who
manage artistic enterprises.

These specific suggestions, which Peng and He preferred to call a revo-
lution rather than a reform of the industry, seem to have received no
public answer. This does not mean, of course, that they had no impact. At
the February meeting of the leaders of the national feature Him studios in
Peking, most speakers who were quoted called for greater studio indepen-
dence. Producing films and leading creative efforts by the methods used in
political administration could onl\ narrow the scope of films. It was a sign
of the times that the long newspaper report of the gatiiering made no
mention of the Ciang of Four.'*

The other approach to the problem of the proper relationship of politics
and art involved a reappraisal of film making since 1949. An effort was
made to differentiate the good from the bad in the thirty years since

^ Rennun ribao, 14 May 1979, p. 3. See also Reumitt ribao, 13 February 1979, p. 3,
article by Han Xiaolei and Huang Shixian; and Renrnin ribaot 22 January 1979, p. 4, artide

by Li Deriin.

^' Rettmm ribao, 12 January 1979, p. 3.

See reference in DUmying yishu, 1979, 2:1.
" Guangmmg ribao, 23 March 1979, p. 3.

uopyiighiea inaiuiial

THE FILM INDUSTRY IN THE 1970s

193

Liberation to provide lessons tor a still-troubled industry. Members of the
older generation of film makers seemed to share their younger colleagues'
concern for artistic democracy {ytshu minzhu). Xia Yan, the most famous
livmg Chinese film maker, offered three reasons for film's historical prob-
lems. First, ideological weakness, in particular, had allowed false, "leftist"
interference, which encouraged artistic restrictions. Second, the relation-
ships between politics and art and between quantity and quality had been
only superficially addressed. Third, not enough attention was paid to
training personnel. Xia called for more rational economic management
and for greater concern over quality. Quality had begun to matter more in
the effort to produce thirty suitable films to honor the 1979 National
Day.^^ In a later summary of historical experience, Li Shaobai derived
lessons from the two waves of major production and the two periods of
slowdown in the years 1949—1965. The first lesson was that the leadership
should approach their task according to the objective reality of cinema and
of its laws. The second lesson was that artists* enthusiasm should be
encouraged. The periods of moderate political leadership of the industry,
when administrative commandism was avoided, had liberated the outlook
and energies essential to the development of film.^^

NEW DIRECI IONS

As the Chinese film industry approached the end of both the thirtieth
year since the founding of the People's Republic and of the third year since
the arrest of the Gang of Four, there were signs that the earlier talk of a
second Liberation was going to be realized in images on the Him screen.
While the enthusiasm and contribution of older him makers should not be
underestimated, many of these signs of real change were associated with
more youthful talents.

The younger film makers attempted to broaden the range of subject
matter. Instead of such cautious studio attempts to recreate past successes
as using Li Shuau^shuang's same writer and star for I'he Great River
Rushes On, young artists were encouraged by directors and others from
the older generation and givt-n more independent experience. These
younger workers were perhaps more able than the older directors, now
mostly in their sixties, to answer Peng and He's call to "stand in the
forefront of the age and answer big social questions." hi mid-H79 Peng
Ning was workmg at the Changchun studios on a "film poem" {dtanymg-

^ DianyiHg yishu, 1979, 1:17-18. See also artides by Zhang Junxiang, Zhang Shuihua,

and Yu Min in Diatiying yishn. 1979, 2:1-14.
Remuw rihao, 14 May 1979, p. 3.

Guangmmg ribao, 5 May 1979, p. 3, article by Hai Lang. Sec also the big emphasis on
youth in April 1979*s Dazhong dianying, p. 5 and pictorial section.

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194

PAUL CLARK

shi), Lu zai tade jiaoxia yanshen . . . [The path at his feet extends . . . ],
about an artist filled with love for his country and people. Described as
neither a documentary nor a feature film, the work was in the hands of a
young group of artists/ Another yoiuiitul group was producing Zuiren
[Criminal], a story of juvenile delinquency after the Cultural Revolution.'"*
A third group at the Peking studio was filming Hunli [Wedding], about the
love experiences of three sisters before and after the Tiananmen Incident.'^*'

A promising feature of these new e^rts was the film makers' self-con-
sciousness and their concern for their audience. In many places in the new
films the makers played on the expectations the audience had built up on
its diet of Gang and pre-1966 films. Ten minutes into Part 1 of The Great
River Rushes On, for example, a rosy-cheeked peasant girl, beaming out
of the screen, starts to sing a song. Even for a hardened Chinese audience,
this seems a little early for the first of the normal dose of two songs. They
discover almost immediately, however, that such expectations are mis-
placed. This is not a standard musical interlude, but part of a real perfor-
mance of street theater in Tieniu village by members of a propaganda
troupe of the New Fourth Army.

But the problems Chinese film makers have in cultivating an awareness
of their audience may stem from the very nature of the medium itself. Film
is a popular art only at the receiving end, in terms of the number of people
who are its consumers. At the creating end, films are made by special
people with special training, spending a great deal of money.^ " Such spe-
cialized, elite film makers, particularly when they have little dependence on
box-office receipts, may continue to hold assumptions about the nature of

^' Dazhung dianyin^, 1979, 3:24. W hen this paper was written in 1979 there was little
indication that this enigmatically descnht J film idea w<Hild become a center ot controversy.
The idea became the Him Kuliatt (Unrequited lovej, coscnpted by Peng Ning and the ritry-
one-year-old poet Bad Hua and directed at the Changchun studios by Peng Ning. Before the
completed film (also known as Ttayang he ren (The sun and the man]) could be released,
KuUan became the center of continuing debate on the relationship between politics and art
and a target ot those who opposed the liberalizing policies of the previous tour vears. For an
assessment ol this controversy and a discussion of some ot the hims made alter 1979, see the
present writer's "Film-making in China: From the Cultural Revolution to 1981," The China
Quarter^ 94 (June 1983): 304-322.

" For the filmscript, see Renmin dianying, 1978, 6:39-62. The controversial nature of
the script is indicated by the discussion it provoked among film makers and teachers, in
Rettmm dtanymg, 1978, 7:39—47. It appears that the him was not released.

" Dazhong dianying, 1979, 3:24.

*** In late 1979, a concern about budget control became more marked; it emerges, for
example, in die conclusion of a film cadre meeting that films should be made according "to

artistic and financial laws" (reported m Diizhonf; dianyint;, 19^9. S: pictorial section). IXihe
benltu and another major 1979 film, i^^mg null dao }iang]un (From slave to general), were
both comparatively expensive productions, perhaps reflecting an urge to have such block-
busters restore the industry's standii^ in the estimation of its audiences.

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THE FILM INDUSTRY IN THt iy7Us

195

their "popular" audience long after these are outdated. One viewer, from a
teacher-training program in Fengtai district, argued that times had changed.
"Some leaders persistently stress that films must achieve the levels reached
in the 1950s, and that this would meet the approval of the masses. In
fact... things from the 19.50s will not satisfy the people's needs. Film
making should not create Hmiiations for itself ihuadiweilao), nor stop and
look backwartl tingzhidaotui).''''*'^ Oiticisms that some film makers kept
working with material that had been successful for them in the past were
not uncommon in 1979."

The faU of the Gang of Four provided a favorable climate for re-assess-
ment of the relations between film makers and their audience. But die
difficulties that Chinese film makers had adjusting to their audience's
needs made it easier for political leaders to intervene in the industry after
1949. The political leaders could daim that they understood the mass
audience better than the film makers. The Gang of Four episode, in this
perspective, was merely a heightened version of what had happened be-
fore. If Chinese film makers did not know who their audiences were,
political leaders could and did inform them.

The problems that Chinese film makers face are further compounded by
an imperative of their ''popular'* art. The films they make are expected to
be comprehensible to all viewers, including the humblest peasant.^ The
sense of the re-assessment of Chinese cinema in the late 1970$ was that
this expectation can make a film less effective both as edification and as
entertainment. Differentiating between t3rpes of audiences, as when foreign
films are shown to largely urban audiences, may be one way to resolve this
artistic quandary. The least educated peasant, after all, is not expected to
enjoy the sophisticated haogao wenxnc ("reportage") of a writer like Xu
Chi in such a popular medium as People's Daily.

A major difficulty is that Chinese film makers may not know who their
audiences are. One young film worker publicly argued in 1979 against the
tendency to look on mass audiences as "A Dou," that is, as fools.^** It is not
clear how elite film makers determine what the humblest peasant (himself
perhaps a myth) can comprehend and wants to see on the screen. A market
research poll that surveyed more than six hundred Peking filmgoers in early
1979 was an encouraging sign, at least tor urban audiences.^

Dazhong dijuyhig. 1979, 3:8.
E.g., Dazhong ciianymg, 1979, 4:3.

This imperative was emphasized in discussions with visiting American film makers in
1979, as reporter in Ted Rhodes and Mark Pttersson, **The Chinese Film Industry,** FUm-
makers Monthly 12,7 (Nfay 19^): 13-23. 1 am indebted to Stephen Horowitz for bringing
this article w my .ittention.

^ Rentnin rihao, 14 May 1979, p. ^.

Guangming ribao, 5 May 1979, p. 3.

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PAUL CLARK

By the end ot the 197()s, a new generation of Hlin makers was being
prepared to succeed the older group who had pioneered hhn in the
People's Republic. Ihe effort to revitalize the Chinese cmenia was predi-
cated on harmony between old and young film workers, on a less cautious
attitude on the part of the leaders, and on a satisfactory adjustment of the
relationships between art, life, and politics. As viewers and Him makers
become more aware of each other's peculiarities, the Chinese Him industry
may well proceed in quite iinexpeaed new directions. But whether it
would keep the nerve it found in early 1979 and finally embark on a new
era remained to be seen.

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NINE

Making the Past Serve
the Present in Fiction and Drama:
From the Yan'an Forum
to the Cultural Revolution

Robert E. Hegel

The literature of the Mny Fourth era was meant to be read by the "Euro-
pcanized gentry," Qu Qiubai observed m 1932. Linguistically and cultur-
ally, the new creative writing of that period, with its foreign terms,
concepts, and structures, was beyond the comprehension ot the masses.
I.iieralure for the common people, for (China's revolutionary masses,
should be composed in the living colloquial speech; it should utilize both
the strong points of the traditional literary forms and the sensible,
straightforward narrative style of the popular storyteller, Qu declared. He
even went so far as to call for "a new W'jtc?' AL?;!,'/;/" and "a new Yue
Fei."' Qu was drawing attention to a fact already familiar to other literary
critics, among them Mao Dun and Cheng Fangwu: May Fourth writing,
geared as it was toward urban intellectual readers, was not well suited to

' Qu Qiubai, " I hc Quesrioii of Popui.ir l.ittT.uiire irui Art " r'D.i/hong wcnyi de vventi")
(orig. pub. in Wcnxnc yuchj-i 1 1 itcr.uurc mi)iuhly|, lU June I'^U:, tr.uis. I'aul Ci. I'ickowitz,
in John Berninghausen and led Hutcrs, eds., Revolutionary Literature in China (White
Plains, N.Y.: Sharpe, 1976; herafter cited as Revolutionary Literature)^ pp. 47-51, esp. pp.
49-51. Shuihu zhuan IWater margin] was apparently compiltil from legends, storytellers'
accounts, .iiid tarlicr written fragments) around 1400, alrhougli tlic cxrant editions are con-
sidirahly more recent. See helou tor a iliseussion ol the work. 1 he best available Knfjlish
translation is Sidney Shapiro, trans., iJutlaus of the Marsh, 1 vols. (Peking: Foreign Lan-
guages Press; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1981). Yue Fei was a patriotic general
of the Southern Song period. His exploits were common fare for professional storytellers and
sta^e presentations; the first novel about him appe.ired ui the middle ot the sixteenth century,
althougii the best-known version of his tictionali/ed hte storv is (^i \ii ( ai's Shmi Vtie quan-
zhuan [Complete tales of Yue Feij (eighteenth century; recent ed., Shanghai: Ciudian wenxue,
1955). See Sun Kaidi, ZJhongguo tongsu xiaoshuo shwnu [Bibliography of Chinese popular
fiaion], rev. ed. (Peking: Zuo|ia, 1958), pp. 50-52, for bibliographical notes on the various
novels concerning Yue Fei.

197

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198

RObtR I t. HEGEL

function as revolutionary literature for the masses." This conclusion be-
came official Party policy when Mao Zedong gave his "Talks at the
Yan'an Forum on Literature and Art" ten years later.^

The views of Qu Qiubai and his fellow critics on this question were a
manifestation of China's ever-developing nationalism and a tacit condem-
nation of the iconoclasm of many May Fourth writers' whole-hearted
adoption of Western literary models.^ One of the chief reasons behind this
resurgence in culttiral pride was articulated by the May Fourth Marxist
thinker Li Dazhao, who blamed the sorry state of China since the middle
of the nineteenth century on foreign imperialism. This perception was
widely influential and seems to have been partly responsible for Mao
Zedong's ''revolutionary nationalism.** Mao was keenly aware that Chi-
nese society could only be transformed on its own terms, by utilizing and
preserving the traditional strengths of the great Chinese masses.^

Furthermore, to Mao it was an item of faith that the general truths of
Marxism-Leninism, such as its analytical methods, should be given ''na-
tional form" {minzu xmgshi) by adapting them to Chinese circumstances.^
As he was to declare in 1956, art "is the manifestation of people's lives,
thoughts, and emotions, and it bears a very close relationship to a nation's

^ Mao Dun, 'Trom Guling to lokyo" ("Cong Guling dao Dongjmg") (ong. pub. in
XuK>shuo yuebao (Fiction monthly] 19,10 11928]), trans. Yu-sliili Chen, Retfohtthnary Ut-
erat$iret pp. 37—43; Qieng Fangwu, *'Frofn a Literary Revolution to Revolutionary Litera-
ture" ("Cong wcnxue geming dao gcming wenxuc**) (orig. pub. in Chuangzao yuekan [Cre-
ation monthly] [1928]. trans. Michael Cotz, RevolutUmary Literature, pp. 34—36.

* As C. 1. Hsia pouus out in his -4 History of Modern Chinese hictton, 1917-1957 (New
Haven: Yale University Press, 1971), pp. 301-302.

^ In a recent study, (7%e Crisis of Chinese Consciousness: AnHtraditionalism in the May
Fourth Era (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1979] ', I in Yu-sheng has examined the
radical iconoclasm of several intellectuals (Chen Duxiu, lu Xuii, arul I In Shi) prominent
during the May Fourth era. He concludes that the completeness ot their rejection of Chinese
tradition was itself a function of that tradition. Given a holistically conceived universe where
cultural values and political authority are inseparable, any opposition to traditional institu-
tions would entail a rejection of all related values. While Lin*s discussicm is not limited to
creative writing, his more general comments also illuminate both a major strain in .May
Fourth thinking and the reaction to that iconoclasm among the Marxist thinkers, Qu and
Mao, and various writers.

' For the diauvinism in U Dazhao's thinking, see Stuart R. Schram, The Politicat Thought
of Mao Tse-tung, rev. ed. (New York: Praeger, 1969), esp. p. 29; for a full, r r ijy of I.i, see
Maurice Meisner, Li Ta-chao and the (Jrit^ins of Chinese Marxism iLambnJ^e, Mass.:
Harvard University Press, 1967). Mao's nationalism is described by Stuart R. Schram in
Political Thought, pp. 132-134; examples of writings revealing this tendency can be found in
Schram, pp. 161-168, including texts from Select^ Works of Mao Tsetung, 5 vols. (Pelcing:
Foreign Languages Press, 1967-1977), 2:305-334 and 4:411-424.

" See Mao, Selected Works, 2:208-210. I i C hi discusses this point in her "Communist
War Stories," in C 'yril Birch, ed., Chinese Communist Literature (New York: I'raegcr, 1*^6 Vi,
pp. 139-157, esp. pp. 139-141. Schram, Political Thought, discusses this point on pp. 12,
115-116, widi the rdevant text quoted on p. 171f.

uopynghiea inaiuiial

MAKING THE FAST SERVE THE PRESENT

199

customs and language. ... It is no good cutting ourselves off from history
and abandonmg our heritage. The common people would not approve."
Given also the essential role he felt ideology played in speeding the
revolution,** it is reasonable that Mao should stress the necessity of pre-
senting new political ideas in forms familiar to the mass of China's com-
mon people. Probably the best-known formulation of this notion is Mao's
frequently cited dictum: "Make the past serve the present; make foreign
things serve China** (gu wei jin yong; yang wet Zhong yong)!^ This formu-
lation served as a guideline for literary production in China's liberated
areas and, subsequently, in the People's Republic to the end of the Cultural
Revolution. This essay will explore a few examples of the '^revolutionary
nationalism" Mao espoused and will uncover elements of traditional lit-
erature in the works of contemporary Chinese writers. First, however, a
few general observations are in order.

The Marxist theoreticians' cultural pride was shared by literary histori-
ans, even those of such different political persuasions as Hu Shi and Lu
Xun.*° While their iconoclasm made ^em rejea as moribund much of the
elite literature of old China, especially its essays and erudite verse, their
nationalism drove them to search for positive elements in China's literary
heritage. What these scholars discovered was protest poetry, vernacular
fiction, drama, and the many popular entertainments of the ballad and
narrative traditions. Since so many of the stories of fictional and dramatic
narratives had circulated for centuries in the broadly popular oral tradition
as well, much of the credit for the vitality and creativity of this material

^ See Stuart R. Schram, ed.. Chairman Mao Talks to 0te People, Talks and Letters: 1 956-
1971 (New York: Pantheon, 1974), p. 85; see also Mao Zedong, "Talk to the Music

Workers," Beijing Review 22,37 (14 September 1979), pp. 9-14.

* For M io's views on the indispcnsnbiliry of intellectuals in revolutionar>' struggles, see,
for example, Selected Works. 2:.?01-3U3 and 305-334, esp. pp. 321-322. Although Mao
states that economics and politics are more crucial determinants of ideology in his "On New
Democraqr** (Selected Works, 2:339-384, esp. pp. 340-341), later in the same essay (p. 382)
he declares that culture must "prepare the ground ideologically before the revolution comes."

' On Mao's \.irious instructions regarding this point, see Mao, Selected Works, 3:S1
("Talks at the Yan'an horum," 1942); 3:60 ("Oppose Stereotyped Party Writing," 1942);
2:340-341, 380-381 ("On New Democracy," 1940); etc.

I refer to Hu Shi*s unfinished Baihua wenxue shi [History of vernacular literature] (only
the first volume was cNcr published: 1926-1927; reprint ed., Hong Kong: Yingzhong
shuwu. 1959), "Zixu" [Author's preface], p. 9, as well a*; to the numerous essays on and
prefaces to vernacular novels and the like reprinted in Hu Shi tcencun |C;ollectcd writing of
Hu ShiJ 4 vols. (Taibei: Yuandong tushu gongsi, 1971). Lm Yu-sheng, m Crisis, pp. 82-102,
discusses Hu Shi as a "pseudoreformist* iconoclast, but he overlooks Hu's work on tradi-
tional literature. See also Lu Xun's femous ZJhongguo xiaoshuo shilue, rev. ed., (1930;
reprint ed.. Hong Kong: Jindai tushu gongsi, 1965) (published in an English translation by
Yang Hsien-yi and Gladys Yang, A Brief History of (.l.uncse hiction (Peking: Foreign l an-
guages Press, 1959J) and Tan Zhengbi's Zhongguu xuoshuu fada shi [History of the develop-
ment of Chioese fiction] (1935; reprint ed., Taibei: Qiye shuju, 1974).

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200

ROlitRT t. HtGEL

was ascribed to China's masses. Consequently, the hterary works contain-
ing these popular stories were generally considered good puieniial niudcls
of naiional tonus, to use the terminology ot the time.

However, this blanket attribution of traditional vernacular literature to
the masses proved at least partially incorrect and has led to serious misun-
derstandings of its historical significance. The full implications of this
mistake have become dear only recently, as many works previously con-
sidered popular have been identified as expressions of traditional elite
ideology. Most, if not all, of the more famous classic novels, for example,
were demonstrably written by literati for other literati. Water Margin is
one such work. To nationalistic scholars it seems to record the determina-
tion of the masses to resist despotic Confucian authority. This interpreta-
tion is valid if one considers only the book's tales of individual heroes,
which had been known to illiterate audiences in China for centuries
through dramatic adaptation, in legends, and from the tales of countless
storytellers. The contribution of these storytellers to the novel as it now
stands has been considerable. But the work as a whole is not merely a
condemnation of isolated official abuses of power; its latest redaaor, Jin
Shengtan (1610?-1661 ), dclibcratciv modified an earlier text to cast doubt
on the motivations of its bandit leader and to condemn rebellion in gen-
eral. An untutored peasant watching a stage presentation of the adventures
of one of its heroes, such as Wu Song, would never perceive this broader
aim of the work. But an educated person who read the entire novel,
including Jin Shengtan's voluminous introductory material and running
commentary, would find this conclusion unavt)idable." Fhus Water Mjr-
^in does not necessarily embody the aspirations of CJhina's masses, in
either rhcir traditional form or as perceived through modern, leftist eyes.
Furthermore, the work was linguistically beyond the reach of all but the
best educated (a point to be examined further below).

In short, the traditional literature to which their nationalistic impulses
drew twentieth-century literary historians and writers was, in fact, two
different but overlapping bodies of literature. Ihe first included popular
entertainments, theatricals (oral works), and adventure fiction in the
simple classical prose of the peasantry and of the poorly educated literate
population. The second consisted of the aristocratic drama of the southern
chuanqi tradition and the literati novels of the elite. It is my intention here
to examine several general formal features of the traditional narratives that
have made them suitable for adaptation to present cultural requirements
and then to present specific examples of sudi borrowing from traditional
works by modern writers. Even within this small corpus of material my

" See Robert E. Hegel, The Novel in Seventeenth Century Ouna (New York: C olumbia
University Press, 1981), chap. 3, for a discussion of Water Margpi and its original polirical
message.

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observations are highly selective; I hope that further investigations will be
made into the ways in which contemporary Chinese writers have made
"the past serve the present."

THE LANGUAGES OF TRADITIONAL NARRATIVE

implicit in the concept of national form are certain notions about the
appropriate use of language. Qu Qiubai criticized the Europeanized style
used by the May Fourth writers; Mao frequently referred to the spoken
language of the peasants as an appropriate linguistic form. However, both
of these styles contrast sharply with the languages of traditional written
literature. Throughout the Ming and Qing periods, all education in China
began with the classical literary language. From moralistic primers the
student proceeded to the Confucian Four Books and then to works of
history, philosophy, and poetry (the Five Classics and other texts). In this
way he prepared for the ultimate goal of education: to become, by way of
the imperial civil-service examinations, a government official. No formal
school taught students to read the vernacular and, given the increasing
divergence over time of the syntax and vocabularies of the static literary
language and the dynamic living speech, literacy in the first does not imply
fluency in reading the second. It took a high degree of literacy in the
classical language to appreciate the most refined Ming and Qing vernacu-
lar fictions because they use a very large vocabulary — including both cur-
rent and literary words — and are heavily larded w ith \ erse and with allu-
sions to China's classics of history and philosophy. Strictly speaking, then,
such works cannot be considered popular; they were designed to be read
by the cultural elite. By contrast, works designed for broader audiences
tend to use a grammatically more straightforward version of the classical
hterary language and a smaller vocabulary than the literati novels.

Hvidence of this situation can be found in those novels that went
through successive "incarnations" in the hands ot old China's writers and
editors. For example, the tale of the Tant; general Qin Shubao was formu-
lated by the poet and dramatist uan Yuling (1599-16~'4) as Sm sin
yiii'OJ [Forgotten talcs of the Sui] in 16 V^ and around 1675 incorporated
by Chu Renhuo (ca. 1630— ca. 1705) into the better-known Sui Tii>ig yiinyi
[Romance of the Sui and the Tang, first published in 1695]. Early in the
eighteenth century, this character became central to yet another redaction,
.S7;/^o quauzhiid}! ' Tales ot the l angj. In the course of this transition

the language of the narrative changed dramatically, trom vernacular for
the literati readers to a stiff but more concise classical for the less well
educated. Moreover, the central figure becomes significantly less complex
from version to version. Yuan Yuling's intention had been to exemplify the
maturation process white criticizing social ills; in Chu Renhuo*s hands Qin

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ROBtRT t. HtGtL

Shubao demonstrates the dilemmas a good Contucian might face in at-
tempting to satisfy conllicting norms of behavior. These two novels were
written by and for literati. lales of the Idng, on the other hand, is an
anonymous adventure novel and lacks both the moral seriousness and the
artistic complexities of the literati novels. Since the tale of Qin Shubao was
only one element in Chu Renhuo's rambling narrative, he shortened con-
siderably Yuan Yuling s account; in his turn, the anonymous editor of
Tales of the Tang compressed the tale even further, so that it became only
a rapid-paced sequence of adventures.

Throughout this sequence of novels, levels of art are direaly related to
levels of language. Not surprisingly, the printing of the text and illustra-
tions also falls dramatically in quality from the second to the third in the
series, in direct proportion to the financial resources of the anticipated
audience. Thus, in the novel at least, use of the vernacular language does
not necessarily identify a work as popular in the sense of being aimed at a
mass audience; in fact, just the opposite is the case generally, as it is in this
series of novels about Qin Shubao.'^ While traditional oral forms might be
appropriate linguistic models for new creation, among the written forms it
was the literati novel that came closer to the style required by the Marxist
critics than did the more genuinely popular works.

PARALLELS IN WORLD VIEW

The process of "making the past serve the present" in literature was
facilitated by parallels in world view between past and present. Both the
writers of the Ming-Qing period and the writers of New ('hina perceive
the world as fully comprehensible. At least m theory, both groups of
writers share the social values of their respective readers and seek to con-
firm or to exemplify, rather than to impart, these values to them. Both sets
of writers perceive humans — collectively, not individually — to be of central
importance in the universe, consider humanity collectively responsible for
change in physical reality, and agree that there exist easily comprehensible
universal principles by which human action should be guided.

Ming and Qing writers held the Confucian view that human events flow
in cycles which were traditionally described as alternations of yin and yang
forces. These bipolar continua form the structuring devices in China's old
narratives. While one specific continuum might form the background for a
particular work (e.g., the continuum from political unity through disunity
to final reunification in Sanguo zhi yanyi [Romance of the Three King-

For a detailed discussion of how relationships among language, ideology, and publish-
ing can identify literati — as opposed to more broadly popular — Hction, see Hegel, Ihc Novel
iH Seventeenth Century China, particularly chaps. 1 and 2. Forgotten TaJes of the Sui is
discussed in chaps. 4 and 5, and Romance of the Sui and the Tang in diap. 6.

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domsj and other old historical novels), very often in these works images
and action are significant on a number of levels simultaneously. Examples
include X/ you ji (journc\ lu the west) and Hong Ion mcug [A dream of
red mansions)."' A character in an old prose work has ilic choice whether
to participate m, lience to facilitate, the llow of events or to withdraw and
perhaps therefore to impede that flow. Such is the choice that confronts
the wily strategist Zhuge Liang in Three Kingdoms, for example. Refer-
ences to the *'will of Heaven** (tiattmmg)^ fate {shu), and the like aside, the
Confucian world view imparted a humanistic bent to the old fiction. As
Mao Zonggang (fl. 1650-1675) observed at the beginning of his version
of Romance of the Three Kingdoms: **Empires wax and wane; states
cleave asunder and coalesce.** That is, in the traditional view, no state nor
stage of political development could last indefinitely; it is the nature of
political rule to be transient. But all historical novels of the Ming and
Qing, like Three Kingdoms, demonstrate that such changes are due to the
strengths and weaknesses, the successes and failures, of people — humans
make themselves and their insitutions. They are not, like Job, the helpless
victims of some capricious higher force. Although there is cyclical alterna-
tion between poles, the direction of events is no more externally predeter-
mined in Confucian fiction than in Chinese Marxism; contemporary fic-
tion lays no more stress on collective action than did the literati novels of
the Ming and Qing.'^

Confucian values place the greatest emphasis on social order, that is,
order maintained through the strictly hierarchical organization of society.
Essentially, any act was '"right" that promoted community harmony on
these terms, while a ''wrong'* act did just the opposite. Charaaers in old

" See Andrew H. Plaks, "Allegory in Hs/'-v" cbi aiul Hwi^^-tou ftietifi" m Plaks, ed.,
Chinese Narrative: Critical ami I'hcoretical Essays {Princeton: Princeton University Press,
1977), pp. 163—202. Plaks terms this "bipolar complementarity."

While this point deserves considerably deeper investigation than is possible in a study of
this length, the following observations are relevant to further considerations: Students of
Marx and subsequent Marxist thinkers rej^ularly confront the issue of determinism versus
voluntarism in Marxist thought; it would appear, at least superHcialK , that each n>ajt>r
Marxist thinker has presented cuiillictiiig views un this issue. Mau Zedong, as prime ex-
ample, had full confidence in die inevitable success of socialism in China as the next step after
feudalism and capitalism in the evolution of political and social systems. In his words, "The
supersession of the old by the new is a general, eternal, and inviolable law of the universe"
("On Contradiction," SelcctcJ W'nrks. \■.^^^'. In his siniHcation of Marxism, Mao came to
stress voluntarism in social and political development, hence the tremendous importance he
plaod on the role of die intellectual and artist in furthering the revolutionary cause. The role
of art is to mold ideology and, once equipped with this new set of values, humankind will
choose to bring socierv' to a "predetermined" higher stage of development — by an act of
collective will. This contradiction is exemplified in Mao's Yan'an Forum speeches, as else-
where. For a discussion of human responsibility for "fate" in Confucian terms, see Hegel,
Ute Novel in Seventeenth Century ChinOt chap. 4.

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popular Hcti(Hi arc presented as occupying specific social roles, the respon-
sibilities of which they fulfill either well or badly. This practice made it
easy to construct models, type-characters specialized by their social func-
tions and moral stances, which two were intimately related. Popular fic-
tion and drama — often in pointed contrast to works designed for elite
audiences — for the most part presented only models; onstage, clearly
defined role categories limited character complexity even further. Popular
fiction and drama emphasized action over any complexities of interaction
among these relatively stiff type-characters.

In reality, however, a single individual could occupy many social roles
simultaneously, a fact that literati novelists utilized to impart a convincing
degree of complexity to certain characters in their more artistic works.
Some of the more memorable scenes of old literati novels involve char-
acters who, realistically, find themselves caught between the conflicting
demands of overlapping roles. In Romance of the Three Kingdoms, 2^uge
Liang must choose between loyalty to his leader Liu Bei and his commit-
ment to preserve the latter*s state. If he chooses the second alternative, he
must depose Liu*s incompetent son, thus disobeying his friend's implicit
charge to protect the young sovereign. Near the end of A Dream of Red
Mansions, Baoyu decides he must postpone becoming a Buddhist monk
and accepts his filial duty to take the imperial civil service examinations.
Qin Shubao also finds himself caught betweeti personal and political loyal-
ties in Romance of the Sui and the Tang.^^ Traditional popular novels
simply ignored such difficult moral questions in favor of complicated plots
and contrived coincidences.

It was old China's literati novelists whose work was the more didactic.
The vernacular fiction of the Ming and Qmg developed a conventional
simulated context for narrative: a professional storyteller speaking to his
listening audience. This "storyteller's manner," as it has been described,
allows the narrator to induli;e in moralizing asides to the reader, compar-
ing the action in the narrative with model events in the past and discussing
the morality of a character's acts. Passages of verse are inrerpt)lated into
the prose narrative of literati fiction to serve the same end, interrupting the
action to allow the reader to ruminate over the more profound implica-

" Note the quandary faced by Zhuge Uang in Sanguo zhi yanyi, diap. 85, and C. T.
Hsia*s insightful discussion of this scene in his The Classic Chinese Novel (New York:
Columbia Universir>' Press, I*J6S), pp. 5'^-62. Baoyu's act of conciliation occurs at the end of
Hottg lou meng, chap. 11^; see, again, Hsia, Classic Chinese Novel, pp. 287, 290-292, 294—
295. Qin Shubao's dilemma is tn Sui Tang yanyi, chap. 55; see Robert E. Hegel, "Maturation
and Conflicting Values: Two Novelists' Portraits of the Chinese Hero Ch'in Shu-pao," in
Curtis P. Adkins and Winston I . Y. Yang, eds.. Critical F.ssjxs on Chiftae Fiction (Hong
Konj^: Chinese University ot Hong Kong Press, 1979\ pp. 1 15-150. Perrv 1 ink discusses the
similarities between modern popular literature in China and the West in his study ot hction
of the 1910s and 1920s, Mandarin Ducks and Butterflies: Popular Fiction in Earfy Twentieth
Century Chinese Cities (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1981).

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lions of the tale. One must not assume that these niorah/ations were
superfluous to the meaning of traditional fiction, simply because they are
conventional; literati authors regularly addressed contemporary political
and social concerns ni their novels.'' Again, by contrast, the more popular
works kept editorial asides and verse interpolations to a minimum in order
to avoid slowing down the rush of events and boring the less educated
readers.

Contemporary Chinese writing parallels certain important aspects of
this tradition, particularly of the more artistic novels. In contrast to the
May Fourth writings (and to some products of the Hundred Flowers
and post-Gultural-Revolution periods, including Liu Xinwu*s stories),'^
which point to newly perceived problems with missionary zeal, most
post-Liberation writings seek to confirm views already introduced
through social change, in political study, and in the other media. Inher-
ent in all Marxist political statements is the proposition that the uni-
verse is comprehensible, that humans are central therein, and that by
collective effort humans can and do transform the world. Whatever
promotes solidarity and strength for progressive social change is good;
any act or view that thwarts progressive change is bad. Class struggle is
observable and predictable, according to the Marxist theorem; and class
struggle becomes a basic structuring device in much fiction of the
People's Republic, as alternations of yhi and yang had been previously.
Likewise, contemporary fiction merely demonstrates this concept; proof
of its validity is as unnecessary now as was proof of the yin and yang
principle in Ming and Qing times.

Confucian works were often set in a general time in the past. Tradi-
tional historical fiction devoted little effort to achieving authenticity; the
customs and institutions depicted in these works conflated elements of the
nominal time setting with elements from the author's own time, a proce-
dure justihed by the universality of Confucian values.'** Marxist works,

For example, various late Ming novels condemned, in thinly veiled terms, imperial
extravagance, the abuses of power by court eunuchs, and the prevailing fashion of heedless
sclt-indulgcnce during their time; see Hcgcl, I he Suvel in Seventeenth Century China, chaps.
3-5.

The fsxt that Liu XinWs stories (e.g., "Ban zhuren" (The dass teadier], Renmin

wenxue (People's literature], November 197^; trans, in Chhtese Literature, January 1979, pp.
15—35) appeared well after the Gang of Four had become fair game for censure might
reasonably lead one to conclude chat his work, too, merely cunhrins the readers bclicts.
Geariy, given the mixed response the stories provoked in die Chinese press, not all readers
agreed widi Liu's views on the Gang's efiiect on Oiina's youdi; see Beifhtg Review 22^ (19
January 1979), pp. 7,27.

"* The Scholars {Rulin waishi), composed aroung P^O, is a noteworthy example; al-
though set in the previous dynasty, it describes the examination system as it was in the
author's own time. See the "Appendix" in Wu Ching-tzu, HfeScht^arSt trans. Yang Hsien-yi
and Gladys Yang (Peking: Foreign Languages Press, 1957), p. 717.

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ROBERT E. HEGEL

however, must be dated precisely, in order to pinpoint the specific stage in
history from which the class struggle will progress through the narrative.
Amenability to interpretation in terms of the alternation of yin and yang
must have been nn implicit criterion in the selection of subject matter for
traditional novels. Recent writers, too, have had to choose material to fit
their world view. War is an extremely common topic because, like other
intense political struggles, it entails the replacement of the old social rela-
tions by a new order, of the chaos of foreign aggression by national
security, and other such climactic changes.'^ The essential ditterences be-
tween old and new fiction here lies in their views of concludinc events: old
fiction brought society in a circle, from order through disorder back to
social tranquility, through warfare^ new fiction must show social progress
in the making.

PARALLELS BETWEEN CHARACTERIZATION
PAST AND PRESENT

Characterization in narrative has been a central concern of Marxist
theorists. Mao Zedong specifically addressed this aspect of writing:

Life as reflected in works of literature and art can and ought to be on a
higher plane, more concentrated, more typical, nearer the ideal, and there-
fore more universal than everyday life. Revolutionary literature and art
should create a variety of characters out of real life and help the masses to
propel history forward.

But in his next breath Mao discussed popularization and the elevation of
cultural standards:

Popular works are simpler and plainer and therefore more readily accepted
by the broad masses of the ptupk today. Works of a higher quality, being
more polished, are more difficult to produce and in general do not circulate

so easily and quickly among the masses at present In present conditions,

dierefore, popularization is the more pressing task.^"

The traditional models Mao would have chosen for contemporary writers
to study, it may be inferred, would not have been the literati novels of
Ming and Qing times but the more popular works, which were less ideo-
logically ambiguous and had more action. Zhou Yang elucidated this point
by calling on authors to model their new creations on the entertainment
forms of the semiliterate.^* Thus, the attention of writers was drawn to

" For Mao's comments m "On Contradiction" on the supersession of the old by the new,
see Selected Works, 1:333.

^ See Mao, Selected Works, 3:82.

^' Zhou Yang had advocated the adaptation of popular forms of mass entertainment to fit
China's new needs even before the Yan'nn Forum; sec Merle Cioldman, Literary Dissent in
Communist China (1967; reprint ed., New York: Atheneum, 1971), pp. 15, 49.

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those works whose characters tended to have tixed attributes. While the
younger writers in Yan'an responded enthusiastically to this call, the ques-
tion of appropriate models was to figure in most literary debates tollowing
Mao's "Talks at the Yan'an Forum."

Mao had called tor writers to integrate themselves with the masses and
to base their works on socialist realism. The popularization and iuriher
development of reportage, baogao wenxue, was one consequence. Writers
like Liu Baiyu reported on battles in which they personally participated.
The immediacy of these thinly fictionalized accounts made reportage an
essential part of the new writing of the 1940s. The adaptation of yang-
geju and of other local dramatic forms marks another important trend in
the new popular literature. The opera Bishang Liangshan [Driven to join
the Liangshan rebels], praised by Mao Zedong, and the one-act pi a) huqi
shizi [Man and wife learn to read], by Ma Ke are examples of sudi
adaptation.^' Here old type-characters were replaced by new models —
workers, peasants, and soldiers — sexual innuendo was deleted, and the
slogans and techniques of the new political drives were fitted to the
familiar songs."

Experiment produced a number of successful applications of socialist
realism to traditional fictional forms. Among these were the works of
Zhao Shuli. His Li Youcai banhua [The rhymes of Li Youcai, 1943] begins
in a matter-of-fact tone, introducing its principal character by place, name,
nickname, age, and social status. The approach is rather more like the
biographical sketches of literati historiography and literary anecdote (and
like Lu Xun's "A Q zhengzhuan" [The true story of A Q]) than like the
old vernacular fiction. The more literate examples of the latter frequently
summarized the events that preceded the appearance of the protagonist or
surveyed the moral principles the tale was meant to cxemplity. Some of
Zhao Shuh's characters are types, such as the grasping landlord, for in-
stance. As in old fiction, particularly in the novels and huaben (vernacular
short stories) of the Ming and Qing times, the action of Zhao's narrative is
interrupted by verse segments — here, I.i Youcai's own rhymes — that com-
ment with insight and sarcasm on the morality of the action. Sigmricantly,
Li Youcai is set apart from the action, rather like the intcrlociitf^r (fiotio)
in plavs of the old chuauqi tradition of aristocratic drama or like the
narrator ot a Ming-Qing novel. Zhao's innovation lies in providing this
traditionally anonymous narrator/interlocutor with a perNonality.

Most of the characters in The Rhymes of Li Youcat are rather realisti-

~' See Hsia, History, p. 303. Mao*s comment of 9 January 1944 was reprinted in Hong qi

|Red flag) (September 1967), p. 2. The Ma Ke piece appi irs in Yanggeju xtuviji [StkctcJ
yangge plays] (Peking: Rcnmin wenxue, 1957), pp. 221-233, and, translated by David
Holm, in Revolutionary Literature, pp. 74-80.
^ Holm, in Rew^koiomry Uteraturet pp. 72-73.

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cally complex in their struggles with old ways of thinking and feudal
patterns of behavior. Zhao ShuH's short story "C.huan jiabao" [The heir-
loom, 1949) paints its protagonists in a similarly realistic fashion; neither
the backward old lady nor her progressive daughler-in-law is cither wholly
villainous or wholly heroic. Although there is no question about the au-
thor's political convictions in these works, it is problematic whether these
characters are "more typical, nearer the ideal" or are simply realistic por-
traits of northern Chinese peasants. Zhao's major characters resemble the
central characters in old literati novels to the extent that they have both
good (progressive) and bad (feudal/traditional) attributes and actions. The
old lady in ''The Heirloom" possesses concrete evidence of class struggle;
her battered box of rags serves as a valuable symbol of the sufferings of
the peasants under the old society. While the younger woman has more
collective consciousness, both characters suffer from a degree of egocen-
trism. Neither woman attempts to understand the other; the heroine is
certainly not corrupted, nor is the older woman wholly reformed, by the
time the story reaches its conclusion. Neither selflessness nor selfishness
remains unqualified by the charaaers* convincing foibles or strengths, and
the contrast of values is left unresolved by the writer. This ambiguity
perhaps reflects the efforts of the Party's leadership at that time to form a

united front among all contemporary points of view."^

Such politically and morally complex characters fall within the vaguely
defined area of the **middlc character" [zhongjian rettwn), because of their
realistic combinations of positive and negative traits. Although the defini-
tive call for writers to concentrate on figures of this sort was not issued
until 1962 (by Shao Quanlin), Zhao Shuli and others, particularly Liu
Qing m Chuangye shi [The builders, 1960J, had developed evocative
middle characters long before. In 1964, at the same time as they were
strenuously disagreeing among themselves about the peasants' readiness
for land collectivization. Party leaders otricially denounced Shao and his
theory. This did not stop writers trom producing characters who exem-
plified ideological ambiguities or complexities: until the ( ultural Revolu-
tion, no major writer would portray heroes and villains simplistically."^' It
is in this area that several major fictional works ot the l^eople's Republic

^* Zhao Shut; xnjnji (Selected works of Zhao Shuli] (Peking: Kaiming shudian, 1951), pp.
"^6-93; tr.msKucJ in Ch.io Shu li, The Rhymes of Li Yu'Tsai and Other Stories (Peking:
Foreign Languages Press, 1966), pp. 69-88.

^ Joe C. Huang {Heroes and Villains in Communist China: The Contemporary Chinese
Novel as a ReflecHon of Life [London: Hurst, 1973]) discusses Shao Quanlin's thecny against
the background of the struggles \Mthin the Pam's leadership over agricultural poliqr (pp.
281—284). Huang analyzes several characters that Shao cited as model middle characters
(pp. 27^-28 1). A major collection ot materials concerning the Shao Quanlin case is "Ciuanyu
'xic zhongjian renwu' de cailiao" [Materials on "Creating middle characters"] Wetiyi bao
[Literary gazette], 9 September 1964.

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show a close affinity to traditional literati novels. In the artistically more
refined novels of the Mnig and Qing periods, stereotyped characters dem-
onstrate the conceivable extremes of behavior and exemplify the desired
moral message. But it is the middle characters, not the stereotypes, that
reveal the aiiihor's serious perceptions of their society; it is the middle
characters of both old and new fiction that are deliberately depicted realis-
tically, in contrast to the one-dimensional exemplars.

However, heroes and villains, ultimately based on less refined tradi-
tional works, did find a place in the new writing. Villains are easily drawn
from observation: the writers Uang Bin and Ouyang Shan, at least, found
that it was not difficult to individualize tfaem.^^ Nor was the hero a prob-
lem for many writers, particularly those who wrote about the time of the
War of Resistance and the Civil War. Most war literature focuses on the
heroic acts of heroic individuals acting selflessly — ^they are, at once, appro-
priate models in times of struggle and the easiest for the writer to create. In
wartime, behavior often approaches the ideal. Wartime writers could util-
ize the spoken language in the format of reportage to create effeaive
literature. Significantly, the political message in such writing is as explicit
as Confucian morals ever were in old fiction; the characters here become
as one-dimensional as on the traditional stage. And such war stories could
be as effective as any traditional work — peasant readers preferred a dear
distinction between wrong and right in their entertainments.^^ War litera-
ture being a form of heroic fiction, its heroes and villains belong to pre-
dictable types. They include:

the resourceful Party member outwitting the enemy by his intelligence and
bravery. The landlord, who is uniformly a traitor, may be given an opportu-
nity to reform, but his confessions are to prove mere subterfuge and he is
eventually lost beyond redemption. ... at least one scene of torture where
the grim endurance of the high-minded Party member or the defiance of the
village people under Communist leadership are depicted in sharp contrast
with the C;hinese traitor's cow.irdlv trcachcrousncss in administering torture
or carrying out other orders ot their Japanese masters. While the landlord is
a lost soul, the poor man who has wavered or erred is usually given a chance
to repent and reform.^'

As Li Chi observes here, it is the peasant who serves as the middle character
in war literature. But the need for such characters is slight when the struggle
is so clear-cut — with Eighth Route Army, Party, and patriotic elements

^ Huang, Heroes and VUlams, p. xiv, n. 8, quoting Liang Bin from Rennthi wenxue
[People's literature] (June 1959), p. 23, and Ouyang Shan from Xingdao ribao [Xingdao

daily], 1 ^ October 1966.

" Huang (Heroes and VilLtins. pp. ^2^-327) summarizes tlie findings of surveys con-
ducted m a number of rural villages in 1962 and 1965.

" Li Chi, "Communist War Stories," pp. 139-157, esp. pp. 141-142.

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ROBERT t. HtOEL

fighting to the death against mvaders, their puppets and collaboratt)rs, and
reactionaries. The heroic fiction produced before the Cultural Revokition,
then, drew its characten/ations from traditional forms of popular enter-
tainment that emphasized type-characters and rigid role categories.

Significantly, fiction by People's Liberation Army (PLA) writers came to
prominence just before the Cultural Revolution, in Ouyang Hat zhi ge
[The song of Ouyang Hai, 1965, rev. ed., 1966], Although the novel has
no villains as such, its hero is the perfect embodiment of selfless devotion
to the Party's goals and is utterly lacking in moral or political com-
plexity.^' The charaaer Ouyang Hai thus forms a perfea transition be-
tween the heroic literature of the years before the Cultural Revolution and
the model operas that followed it. Of the operas first designated as "mod-
els" iyangbanxi), all but one, Haigang [On the docks], are set in wartime;
their stories were adapted, appropriately, to a tradition of Peking opera
that emphasizes type-characters and rigid role categories. The amalgama-
tion of war literature with traditional opera thus produced an art form
with none of the moral complexity of Ming-Qing literati novels; in the
area of characterization, at least, the Cultural Revolution spelled the end
of the complexity that modern fiction had shared with the old literati
fiction for most of a decade.

ADAPTATIONS FROM TRADITIONAL NARRATIVES IN

DAUGHTERS AND SONS

Xifi ertiii yijii^xioug zhuan [Daughters and sons; literally. New talcs of
men and women heroes] was written m I'-M'-^ bv the husband-and-wife
team of Kong Jue and Yuan jing. ' Although us portraits of the initially
weak and befuddled peasantry owe something to the May Fourth variety
of realism, socialist realism is responsible for the quick maturation of these
characters into militia heroes of the War of Resistance. Many elements of
traditional vernacular narrative are to be found in this work. Most obvi-
ously, the chapters in Daughters and Sons use poems, songs, or slogans as
epigraphs to set the mood for the action that follows. In this the authors
tollowed a precedent m Muig and Qing fiction that was popularly sup-

^' Huang, Heroes And Villains, pp. 292-3 19; the novel was first puhlisht-J hv the [icfang-
jun wenyi she; the revised edition was pubhshed by Renmin wenxue, Peking, in 1966. See
C. T. Hsia*8 comments on this diaracter in his "Communist Literature since 1958," in Hsia,
Histofy, pp. 509>532, esp. pp. 527-528.

30 J949 is ti^g jafg Moruo's preface in Yuan jing and Kong Jue, Xirt erm

yingxhftg zhuan (Peking: Zuojia, 196.V). Tsai Mcishi {( nnteniporary Chinese Novels and
Short Stones, 1949—1974 [Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University tast Asian Monographs,
no. 78, 1978], p. 161) notes diat Kong and Yuan are divorced. Kong was expelled from the
Party and ^e Writers* Association in 1952 for his immoral conduct.

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posed to derive ultmiately from the traditional storyteller/' Here as in old
fiction these quotations serve to retard the pace of the action, thus building
suspense while allowing the reader to contemplate the broader implica-
tions of what is to come. The narrative, which t;encrally proceeds tiiiicklv,
is also deliberately slowed by descriptions of place and by a love attair — a
format common in such old adventure novels ot the literati tradition as the
Romance of the Sui aini the l ang.

Verse (or song) is rarely interpolated in Daughters and Sons; the few
examples have a rather more sophisticated value than that of merely build-
ing suspense, in Chapter 5 the protagonist, Niu Dashui, is to be married to
a young woman in a neighboring village. As he rides along a dike on a
borrowed horse to collect his bride, he hears a youngster on a boat singing
a springtime love song. Dashui*s romantic mood is shattered, however,
when he arrives at his destination to find a detachment of Japanese sol-
diers raping and pillaging. His bride is among their victims. The springtime
song here provides a much crueler irony than an old literati novel is ever
likely to have presented.^^ Likewise, these contemporary authors seem
much more conscious than their predecessors several centuries before of
the effect of abrupt changes of pace.

Daughters and Sons also borrows several scenes from well-known tradi-
tional novels, particularly Water hdargin. Daughters and Sons is set in a
liberated area of Hebei during the War of Resistance. In the rural villages
and towns surrounding Baiyang Lake, local peasants grow reeds as a cash
crop; the reeds grow tail as a man and are interlaced with a maze of
narrow waterways familiar only to local inhabitants. When Japanese
forces begin to sail across the lake to raid the surrounding communities,
the peasant militia, led by Party cadres, repeatedly ambush them, scoring
sweeping successes despite the enemy*s superior arms. These scenes in the
modem novel clearly recall the similarly stirring scenes in Water Margin,
where the bandit rebels use just such swamp warfare to foil a number of
attacks by imperial armed forces on their 1 iangshan base.'' In both novels
the invaders are annihilated, defeated by the working people's knowledge
of the marsh that supports them.

The protagonists of Diiughterb: jtid Sons are youthtul militia heroes. I'lUt
among the secondary characters is a figure reminiscent of, if not copied

" Li Chi, "Communisr War Stories," p. 146.

" See Yuan and Kong, Xht ermi, pp. 7()-71; Sidney Shapiro, trans., Daitsihtcrs and Sons
(Peking: Foreign Languages Press, 1958 and 1979), pp. 78-79. (Shapiro omits the words ol
the song here.) He first published his translation, under his Chinese name Sha Po-li, in New
York (Uberty Press, 1952).

Huang (Heroes and Villains, pp. .?3-35) notes the strong influence of Water Margin's
heroes and scenes in I.i.ing Bin's Keep the Red Hag I lying (Hong qi pu, I*^5H; rev. ed., 1^59);
in pp. 133—134 Huang notes adaptations from \V'i//t'r Wargtn and Romance of the Ihree
Kingdoms in Ai Xuan's The Thundering Yangtze [Dapang jenglei, 1965).

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from, the traditional rhcMtt'r. The long plays of the southern chujnqi xradi-
tion are regularlv introduced by a learned old man w ith a long heard. This
interlocutor iihc jumo) summarizes the plot of the pla\ and comments
directly — for the benefit of the audience — on the moral message to be
derived therefrom. The interlocutor may enact this role again^ later in the
play. In Chapter 6 of Daughters and Sons, an unnamed old man "with a
long white beard** speaks for the peasants in praise of the militia's victory
over the Japanese. Appropriately, the old man is described as one of the
^^enlightened gentry" {kaiming shishen)^ an educated man whose values are
congruent with those of both the authors and the protagonists.*''* Similarly,
in Chapter 10 an old man facilitates an exchange of prisoners between the
militia and the Japanese puppet forces. The narrator simpiv describes the
Japanese treatment of their prisoner: **They pounced on Dashui like cruel
beasts of prey. For hours they subjected him to every horrid device their
sadistic minds could contrive.** It is left to the interlocutor** to react on
behalf of the reader, to demonstrate how the reader should respond. On
seeing the prisoner, the old man **recoiled in dismay.** Only later is the
victim's condition described — ^in realistically gory detail; the old man has
been used to shape the reader*s response in advance.^^ Both of these elderly
figures are anonymous and are clearly distinguished from the peasant he-
roes of the work.

Daughters and Sons adapted two other scenes from old Chinese fiction.
Both involve famous tricks and stratagems by which a relatively disadvan-
taged hero overcomes a rapacious and powerful villain. In Chapter 14 of
the modem work the rapist of Dashui's bride, the Japanese commander
lino, forces a puppet mayor to arrange a marriage with an attractive
woman he has seen. In fact, the woman is an underground agent for the
guerrillas antl a Party member. In a grotesque scene, the "groom" becomes
helplessly drunk at his wedding teast, and a young niilirianian disguised as
the bride shoots him dead as he approaches the marriage bed — but not
until the villain has fondled the young man's leg. " Variations on this scene
appear in several traditional works, among them \\\itcr Mjfi>in and the
ever-popular journey to the W est, in (Chapter 4 of \i\iter Warj^iu, l.u
Zhishen takes the place of an unwilling bride and thrashes the would-be
groom, a miserly local bandit leader. Monkey rids a landlord familv of an
unw anted son-m-lavv ui Chapter 18 of journey to the West; he disguises

** Daughters and Sons, p. 86; X/w emit, p. 78.

Daughters and Sons, pp. 144-145, 148, 149; Xm emii, pp. 134, 136, 138.
^ Daughters and Sons, pp. I * Xht ermi, pp. 182-185. It is also noteworthy that

the spoct.itors in the streets nearby, peddlers and the like, are all disguised guerillas — another
idea borrowed from Wjri^in. In ( hapter 41 ot that work, disuuised (>aiKlits rescue a

pair ot their tricnds from execution by this means. (1 use here the chapter-numbering system
of the seventy-chapter version edited by Jin Shengtan in the seventeenth century.)

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himself magically as the girl in Drder to ciuicc ihc Pig, Zhu Wuneng,
within reach of his mighty cudgel. In both cases, the would-be lover whets
his appetite by touching the supposed object of his desire just before the

trap IS sprung.^

A second stratagem, apparently borrowed from or at least very similar
to an episode in Romance of the Three Kingdoms, appears in Chapter 18
of Daughters and Sons. There a young woman is found to have two lovers,
both puppet leaders and jealous of each other. The Communist resistance
convinces this woman, herself a former member of the village Woman's
Association, to play one villain off against the other until one is killed.^* In
Chapters 8 and 9 of Romance of the Three Kingdoms, a loyalist plots to
use the maiden Diaochan as a means to estrange the despot Dong Zhuo
from his adopted son Im Bu. Both fall in love with her, and in his jealousy
the younger man slays the elder. The episode is known in its traditional
theatrical versions as **the stratagem of interlocking rings" {tianhuan ji).

As with this second example, modern users of traditional scenes and
techniques clearly modify them to a substantial degree. The bottles may be
old, but the wine is decidedly new. This tendency is clear in the story of
the villain Zhang Jinlong, a ne'cr-do-well and local bully who first serves
as a sharpshooter in a big landlord's gang of thugs and later becomes a
leader in the puppet armed forces. Initially, however, underground Party
members attempt to recruit him for the people's militia. At first he acqui-
esces but subsequently sets himself up in a town where he and his cronies
spend their time gambling, drinking, and whoring. Reprimanded for his
misdeeds, Jinlong raids a fortified city to prove his worth to the resistance.
Almost singlehandedly he manages to steal into the center of town to rob
and kill the defenseless head of the merchants' association.^^

This raid is strongly reminiscent of, and probably copied from, the acts
of individual daring so common m the adventure novels of the swordsman
[wnxia] tradition, popular since the middle ot the Qmg period." An early
example of such a fear comes, again, in \(.'ater Mar^ifi. In Chapter 30 of
that novel Wu Song takes his revenge on a local despot who had plotted to
have him arrested and executed. The rough hero sneaks into the general's
house to kill e\er\ ()ne he encounters, even going as far as to steal, gratu-
itously, all the valuables he finds. It is significant that neither attacker is
satisfied with simply killing his victim; both behead the lifeless corpses, in

One is reminded of a similar trap laid by W ang Xikny for Jia Rui in //om^ iuu nwng,
diap. 12. There a male cousin disguises himself as Xifeng; the suitor is shamed and exposed
to ^e cold and damp for his presumptions.

^ D.uighterf atui Sons, pp. 251-256; Xm <'r>ui. pp. 22S-235.
" DauiihUts ,iHil Sons. pp. 103-106; X;/; frmi. pp. ^4-^6.

*' See James J. 1. l.iu, I he Chinese Kmght-trrant iChicago; University ot Chicago Press,
1967), esp. pp. 116-137.

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Wiiter Margw Wu Song's murderous rage is justified, even if he carries his
vendetta beyond those who had wronged him. Jinlong, however, has no
such justihcation; he commits cold, calculated murder. As a consequence,
he is sternly criticized for disobeying orders, tor selt-seekuig adventures,
and for killing a potential ally. A scene that in the original novel praises
revenge against the abuses of the powerful thus becomes in its adapted
form the vehicle for a clear differentiation between the value of individual
causes, whatever their justification, and the collective good — ^here, the
united front against Japanese aggression.

ADAPTATIONS OF EARLIER LITERAl IJRE IN
TRACKS IN THE SNOWY TOREST

Famous scenes from traditional fiction also appear recast in Linhai
xueyuan [Tracks in the snowy forest, 1956]. Here the novelist Qu Bo (b.
1923) adapts another Water Margin episode, the tiger-killing scene from
Chapter 22. In the earlier novel, the valiant fighter Wu Song passes

through a mountainous region on his way home. With the braggadocio
typical of traditional swordsman heroes, Wu Song imbibes five times the
recommended amount of a powerful local wine and then sets off to cross a
ridge. The area, however, is the home of a man-eating tiger. No sooner
does Wu Song succumb to the effects of the wine and lie down for a nap
than the tiger attacks. Wu Song's poorly aimed blow breaks his cudgel
against a branch. After a long and arduous struggle, Wu Song manages to
kill the beast with his bare hands. The speed of the cat's attack had left no
time for reflection; now, with the tiger dead at his feet, Wu Song finally
begins to quake with fright. Soon he encounters a group of hunters who
take him to a nearby settlement, where he presents the tiger to the local
authority and becomes an officer in his army.

Qu Bo's version ot this story is similar in many details. In Iracks in the
Snowy Forest, Yang Zirong is a PLA scout sent out alone to the lair of a
group of reactionaries and thugs who have turned to banditry in the
traditional mold. Yang travels m disguise, assuming the identity of a ban-
dit captured previously by the PLA. He crosses a mountainous region of
China's northeastern provinces, riding on the bandit's horse, which is far
more important to him as a means of validating his disguise than as mere
transportation. Appropriately, the tiger here is attraaed to the horse; the
threat is not to the man but to his mission. Therefore, Yang Zirong must
stop the tiger at all costs. Yang takes careful aim with his rifle while the
dger is still comfortably far away, but the bullet is a dud. like Wu Song,
Yang Zirong is thus deprived of his primary weapon, and the tension of
the scene mounts accordingly. Yang uses his Mauser pistol to shoot a clip
of bullets at the attacking beast; this only angers the tiger. Then Yang fires

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again with his rifle and misses; he fires again and agani until, tinalK, he
lodges a hiillet in the tiger's brain as it hinges directly at hini. As did W'u
Song, Yang Zirong stamps on the beast to prove that it is dead, then falls
limp with fright. A tew moments later, bandit scouts discover him; Yang
uses his killing of the tiger as yet another reason for the "authorities"
(here, the bandits) to treat him with respect.'**

From beginning to end, the scene is less fantastic than its prototype in
Water Margin, but the essential stages in the struggle are unmistakably
similar. The major change is the context: Wu Song drinks copiously to
prove his individual mettle, whereas Yang Zirong's reflections on his
grudges against local despots and all those who oppress the working
people gives his tiger killing political significance. As if to acknowledge his
source, Qu Bo has Yang declare, **Interesting— on my way to Tiger Moun-
tain Fve had to cross a Jingyang Ridge.'"'' Jingyang Ridge was the site of
Wu Song's encounter with the tiger in Water Margin.

Water Margin's heroes are individualized to only a minor degree; its
villains are even more wooden embodiments of self-indulgence, craft, and
cruelty. Qu Bo*s villains are similarly one-dimensional. Without exception
they are ugly. Xu Damabang (**Horse Cudgel Xu**), for example, has
**horsy eyes . . . stubble half an inch long covering his face .... a big stout
body. ... He is the incarnation of an evil spirit.*"*^ His wife Hudiemi
("Butterfly Enticer") is a "hideous witch. . . . Her face [is] . . . like a dried-
up ear of corn — ^long, thin and yellow, with a mouthful of gold teeth."
Furthermore, she constandy **twitches her hips*' ipigu niule liangniu) to
show her sadistic excitement over the cruel treatment of the peasants."*^
While other writers, Zhao Shuli among them, describe their villains in
more convincing terms, Qu Bo seeks from the outset of his work to set his
villains apart from normal humanity. "Butterfly Enticer," he notes, had
''looks [that] were enough to turn your stomach." She speaks in shrieks
and screeches; she is also grotesquely painted with cosmetics. It goes with-
out saying that she is morally reprehensible as well; although the fact is
irrelevant to the plot, Qu Bo frequendy mentions her aggressive prom-

Chu Po, Tracks m the Snowy Forest, trans. Sidney Shupiro (I'eking: Ftireign l.angii.iges
Press, 1962), pp. 196-202; Qu Bo, Unhai xueyuan (Peking: Reninin wenxue, 1957; reprint
ed., 1977), pp. 202-204. Qu notes that he completed the novel in eighteen months of
part-time writing, from February 1955 to August 1956, in his "Guanyu Linlhii xueyttOH*' (On
Tracks in the Snowy Ton'st]; Ltnhai, p. S"^. This essav is dated September 195S.

Litihai, p. 204; the English version ignores the allusion; see I racks, p. 199. Qu Bo, in
his "Guanyu Unhai xueyuan," p. 580, acknowledges chat, although modern novels such as
How the Steel Was Tempered {Connie $hi zenyang Hatuhengde) inspired him, he knew die
classics, Water Mart,'.";, Three Kingdoms, and Shuo Yue qmndfuan [Complete tales ofYue
f«"] so well that he could recite sections from memory.

Tracks, pp. 21-22; Linhai, p. 21.
*• Tracks, p. 22; Unhai, p. 23.

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iscuit) Fiirrlicrmorc, she and her brothers use their father's prisoners as
living targets for pistol practice and to train their guard dogs/" Surely this
woman's match has not been seen in (Chinese literature smcc Dap had
pregnant women ripped open in the sixteenth-century fantasy-adventure
novel Fengshen yanyi [Investiture of the gods]. As a political commissar
describes Xu and Butterfly Enticer, "These are no ordinary enemy rem-
nants. They're the worst types of savages."*^

Another of Qu Bo's villains disguises himself as a Taoist priest. His neck
is ** nearly as thick as his head**; he is having an affair with a woman
whose dress and manner are ''an odd mixture of the city and the country**
{ckeng buchengt xiang buxiang).** This blend of styles becomes yet
another mark of villainy, that these characters attempt to conceal their
motives and their morals, that they add subterfuge to murder, mayhem,
rape, and the various other atrocities they perpetrate on the working
people. Given any realistic detail, these characters would appear as sadists
who delight in the suffering of others. But realism in any proportion seems
not to be Qu Bo*s goal in creating this group of characters. Instead, they
serve only as convenient devices in the development of the plot toward its
inevitable conclusion, the victory of the PLA and militia forces over the
bandits. Thus, as the plot progresses, the villains turn from cruel master-
minds into bumbling fools.

Initially in Tracks in the Snowy Forest, the bandits stage lightning at-
tacks on isolated villages, fleeing before PLA detachments can arrive.
Caught off guard in the first such raid, the victims are apparently un-
armed; the bandits suffer no casualties hut the peasants arc decimated,
their leaders tortured to death, their annuals slaughtered, and their houses
burned. The PLA arrives to Hnd the people immobilized, trozen by the
rage that, unconvincingly, had not prompted them to resist in any success-
ful fashion. Even the land-reform leader, older sister of the protagonist
Shat) jianbo, had been captured easily. Jianbo himself is at Hrst emotion-
ally paralvzed by the outrage." This is the first in a series ot occasions in
which the diabolically clever villains outwit or outmaneuver the PLA he-
roes. I hree-gun Zheng, a professional thief in league with the reactionar-
ies, is a crack shot. By contrast, ^ ang Zirong empties a pistol at a tiger
without hitting it once. At least in these scenes, the "heroes" are unhero-
ically weak and the villains decidedly stronger.

However, Yang Zirong is a key character here. An accomplished story-
teller as well as an experienced scout and fearless fighter, he can recite

T>\ii k<, pp. 23-25; Linhai, pp. 2J-24.
Tnuks, p. 27; Linhai, p. 26.
Tracks, p. 34; Ltnhat, p. 33.
*• Tracks, p. 141; Linhai, p. 142.
Tracks, pp. 6-9, 28-33; Linhai, pp. 5-9, 27-31.

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troni RofUiUiLC of the Three Kifigdoms, Wjter Mjri,'/;/, and Yhc /r/V" the
reader is prompted by this fact to see these heroes — and this novel — as full
inheritors of this heroic tradition. Thus, after initial setbacks the PLA
fighters prediciahly score easy victories over their foes: Yang Zirong works
to find the bandits' location, then captures one of their messengers
(Chapter 4); "Tank," Liu Tankc, scours the mountains alone, then over-
takes an opium peddler in a frantic footrace (Chapter 5). Tank is as great
an athlete as his predecessors in old China's military romances; he even
describes himself with the traditional term ^^haoharT ("good fellow").
When his adversary pulls a knife, Tank kicks it out of his hand and drives
it point first into a tree/' The villains appear shrewd, but in fact each
one's subterfuge is foiled by the insightful Shao Jianbo; every villain soon
becomes ridiculous, no longer frightening.

With the help of the local population, the PLA handily captures the
bandits on Breast Mountain (Chapter 8). The struggle against the bandits
on Tiger Mountain takes a long time to come but presents few setbacks for
the heroes; the villains are totally convinced that Yang Zirong is the bandit
he pretends to be, and he springs a totally effective trap for them. Yang
has even become a good shot by this time/^ During the bandits* raid on
the train in Chapter 18 a few heroes fall, but far more bandits.^^ At this
point, the narrative slows, and fighting becomes less important. An inno-
cent love affair develops between the PLA conmiantier Shao and a young
medical worker, amid the victory celebrations and the planning for the
future. One bandit chief is taken after Hve minutes of fighting (Chapter
25); another battle takes half a minute (Chapter 33).

The conclusion, when it comes, is anticlimactic. The villains described
in such fearsome terms at the beginning of the tale, including I hree-gun
Zheng, arc captured easily, their reported prowess left unconfirmed by
their actions. Like those in the truncated version ot W ater Mari^in, the
villains here become merely the background tor the heroic actions of the
PLA. In fact, the novel ends with the words, "A new struggle has
begun . . {Xhide douzheng kaishile . . .).'* Qu Bo here pretiuurcs a se-
quel; his work thus becomes a single, multisegmented episode m the saga
of the broader revolutionary struggle. 1 o this extent, Tracks ht the Snowy

See Tnuks, p. 58; Litthai, pp. 54-55. Yang proves his ability as a storyteller in chapter
17: Tnicks, pp. 226-22S; l.mhai, pp. 2.H-2^6. Alrhough Shao jianbo is the chief autobio-
graphical Hguro, Yang's teats of memory clearly recall Qu Bo's: see note 42 above.

*' Tracks, pp. 71, 78; Lmhui, pp. 67, 73. Huang {Heroes and Villains, pp. 143-144)
discusses this character and his vitality. This vitality did not survive the process of translation.

See chaps. 15, 17, 19, and 20. Track. . ;v 2 = > and Linhai, p. 241, note that Vang
deliber.itclv .nms his shots very close to the h.itidits who used to trick him — even though he is
shooting troiii .1 considerable distance and m the predawn gloom.
Tracks, pp. 150-151; Lmhai, pp. 259-262.
" Tracks, p. 549; Unhait p. 572.

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Forest is seemingly meant to jom the tradition ot popular novels that
follow successive generations of heroes, who each battle similar villains
through time.

Thai Qu Bo wants his readers to link his novel to the earlier tradition of
military romances, that he is "making the past serve the present," is dem-
onstrated in several ways. First, like the warriors of Water Margin, many
of the PLA officers here are known by descriptive nicknames. "Tank" has
been mentioned above; another athletic scout is known as **Longlcgs''
(**Changtui**). Even the pretty medic, Bai Ru, has the nickname '*Xiao
Baige** ^Little White Dove**). Despite the love afiiair between their com-
mander and Bai Ru, most of the PLA men show no more interest in
romance than did their predecessors in Water Margin. They treat Bai Ru in
a comradely fashion, for the most part; when her sex is even ac-
knowledged, it only provides the basis for schoolboyish teasing. Like the
women warriors in Water Margin, this woman proves herself equal to the
men in endurance, valor, and selfless devotion to the mission.

Water Margin remains well known largely because of the famous scenes
that have been, over the centuries, adapted to the stage. In Giapter 35 of
Tracks in the Snowy Forest, entitled "Xueshang daxia** [Great swordsmen
on the snow], Shao Jianbo recounts the highlights of the men's adventures
to his superior officer as if they were the topics of plays. He enumerates all
the most exciting and dramatic incidents, which were, with few excep-
tions, individual exploits not collective movements. Since Qu Bo prefaces
this list with references to famous episodes from Romance of the Three
Kingdoms, there can be no doubt that the parallels here arc deliberate, that
he was deliberately placing his work within the tradition of Ming and
Qing vernacular fiction. Indeed, the superior officer exclaims, after hearing
Shao's account, "Your exploits would make a beautiful novel!"'' And
ironicallv, lust before his downfalK the last bandit leader explains his
failure through an oblique reference to Ihree Kingdoms, in the classic, he
says, each of the three contending states had as advantage one of the
cosmic triad: Heaven or time [tianshi). Earth or location (dili), and the
support of Man [renhe). Having none of these, the bandit mourns, he is
doomed to failure.'*"

While other heroes approach the traditional xia swordsman in their
unflagging strength and courage, Shao Jianbo is clearly a different sort of
character, a produa of the present and not the past. While others carry
out their hair-raising adventures alone, Shao*s attention is always riveted

" Tracks, p. 508; Linhai, p. 534. Huang {Heroes and Villains, p. 135) notes that l.inhai
was criticized — e.^., in Chant^jiatit; wenxi | Yangtze literature and art| (April 1^59), pp. hH-
69 — tor its author's poorly disguised narcissistic depiction ot Shao, his autobiographical
hero.

Tracks, p. 539; Linhai, p. 563.

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on his larger responsibilities. To this extent, he is the perfect PLA lender.
He is shaken hv the the cieath of his sister hut hardly less so by the loss of
his class brothers and sisters; he gladly accepts responsibility; he is quick
of wit, farsighted, determined, kindly; he encourages others to think and
to act creatively; he is selHcss and oblivious to personal discomfort. He
adheres strictly to regulations without being mechanical; he depends
heavily on his fellows for wisdom.

Shao does make mistakes. The omniscient narrator recounts the mental
turmoil that Shao suffers when, for example, he allows a train to run
straight into the brigands* ambush and sends a relief column too late. Shao
torments himself with guilt over the injuries and deaths he has unwittingly
caused.^^ With lesser characters, such mistakes might impart a convincing
degree of complexity. But with Shao Jianbo, as later with Ouyang Hai, the
hero's response to a mistake in judgment is only further proof of his
superiority. Although Shao reacts realistically to his personal loss when his
sister dies at the beginning of the novel, by the end he is pure paragon:

Under these dangerous circumstances, apparently surrounded by an enemy
four times his fsic; read "its"] strength, hemmed in by a dense network of Hre,
the small detachment stood like an indestructible rock, like an evergreen w hich
feared neither ice nor frost. Jianbo gave his commands, calm and unruffled. For
he knew that the slightest show of panic on his part would cause his men to lose
their fighting determination, their steadiness, dieir courage. He had to be the
immovable Mount Tai in his men's hearts, the helmsman in the storm, the pure
metnl in the fires of the cnicible. Only thus would he he worthy of the name of
People s I iberation Army commander, only thus would he deserve the name of
Communist.

Calmly and carefully he examined all the circumstances he needed to
know . .

Shao Jianbo in Tracks in the Snowy Forest is a hero of a new type, a
hero for the problems of the socialist age. He is a model of selfless devo-
tion to the cause of the masses, dedicated to wiping out the forces of
exploitation and oppression. He also is yoimg, talented, and handsome.
The young female member of the PLA detachment lov^ him deeply and,
presumably, pnssionatcK i his dcnionstrntion of concern makes her blush
turioiisly. Were he and the other characters in the iK)vel to be compared to
the role categories of the old Peking opera, one might see in Shao jianbo
something of the wushen^i, the yc^ung man of martial bent whose gentle
good looks mask his prowess in arms. His comrades resemble more the
//;/t,' role, the herce-taced and mature but rough-mannered military hero.
The bandits, at least after their first introduction, function as evil choUy or

Tracks, pp. ISA, 3U2; Lmhat, pp. 263-264, 318.
" Tracks, pp. 455-456; Litthau pp. 482-483.

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ROBtRT E. HEGEL

clowns; they are objects of scorn as well as mirth. \X ithout question, the
moral stance of each character m this modern work is as immutable as
that of the role categories in the old theater.

A FURTHER ADAPTATION FOR THE STAGE

As limited as was the realism in Qu Bo's novel, the stage version of the
story was even more ideali/ctl. The Peking opera Zhiqu WeihKshjn (in-
itally known in English as laknii^ the Bandits' Stroughold and later as
Takhi^ Tiger Mountain by Strategy) appeared in 1958, soon after the
publication of the novel.''' Its earliest version seems to have followed the
novel closely; it was later criticized for a scene in which Yang Zirong sings
''obscene ditties" as he ascends the mountain to the bandits' lair. The final
rewriting of Taking Tiger Mountain, finished in July 1970, offers a strik-
ing example of the "three prominences" theory of artistic construction
proposed by Jiang Qing and \'ao Wenyuan, a theory that took to further
extremes the theme of "revolutionary romaiuicisnr' developed in the
1950s.

The revolutionary model opera, an exemplum for all other literary pro-
duction during the decade from 1966 to 1976, narrates Yang Zirong's solo
mission on Tiger Mountain in detail. Prefaced to this adventure is only
enough action to provide a minimal context: the rapacity of the bandits
and the evolution of a strategy to destroy them. In the earlier versions of
the opera, each character was named: the commander Shao Jianbo, the
medic Bai Ru, and others. Shao was an important singing diaracter as
well. The bandit villains were also accorded a reasonably large amount of

(joodwin C. Chu and I'hilip H. Cheng ("Revolutionary Opera," in Godwin C Chu,
ed.. Popular Media in China [Honolulu: University Press of Hawaii, 1978], p. 85) note chat
the play's first version was produced by the Shanghai Peking Opera Theater in 1958. Its Yang
Zirong was played "much in the traditional swordsman style of the old Chinese opera." The

play initially had only a brief run; it could nor compere wirh rhe favorite rr.idirional rom;inric
play Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai (Chu, p. 97). Hua-yuan Li Mowry gives a brief history
and synopsis of the play in her Yang-pan hd — New Theater in China (Berkeley: University of
California Center for Chinese Studies, 1973), pp. 68-71. On p. 114, n. 8, Lowry notes that
in 1 ^57 the Peking Opera Troupe of Peking had staged a play, based on the same chapters of
l.mhat, entitled Capturing the Hardened Bandit Vtdture h\ 'stratei^x ■Zhiqin fytianfei /.un-
shandtao). See Tao Junqiu,y/Hj^/M /umu chutan |A preliminary bibliography ot Peking operas]
(Peking: Zhongguo xiqu chubanshe, 1963), pp. 503-504. For comments on the process of
revision, see "Strive to Create the Brilliant Images of Proletarian Heroes,** written by the
Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy Group of the Peking Opera Troupe of Shanghai, Chinese
Literature, January 1970, p. 62 (translated from Honfi qi [Red flag], November 196^, pp.
62—71), Martin Kbon [hwe Chtnese Communist Plays [New York: Day, 1975), p. 15S in)tes
that in translation the bandit leader's name changed from "tagle" to "Vulture." However,
neither the play nor the bandit changed names in Chinese.

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MAKING THH PAST StRVE THE PRESENT

dialogue on stage' ' But, in the successive revisions, these characters lost
their individuaUty and even their names, which were rephued by mere
titles. The emphasis clearly shifts to the heroism and craftiness of the sniglc
PLA scout, who becomes the "perfect, lofty proletarian hero."*' The heroic
personalities of Shao Jianbo and the other fighters ibde away as, in succes-
sive revisions, they do no more than fulfill plot functions.

The model opera's portrayal of Yang Zirong certainly deserves a more
detailed study than is possible in a survey such as this. In the hands of the
novelist Qu Bo, he wasted many bullets killing a single tiger; in his latest
development, he drops the beast in its tracks with a few shots. Here
realism disappears; so, too, does all visible trace of Qu Bo's debt to Water
Margin, leaving only an unconvincing paragon of socialist virtue. Yang
Zirong's resemblances to the traditional swordsman were sternly con-
demned by Jiang Qing and her collaborators. In the original novel, Yang is
under the strictest orders to maintain his bandit disguise at all times. Thus,
as he ascends to the bandit lair, Yang practices being reckless, haughty,
and even vulgar in order to make his act convincing. Surely an experienced
reader would see this realistic performance as further proof of Yang's
dedication to the peoples' cause, and, in fact, he makes no compromise
with the outlaws in Tracks in the Snotvy Forest, To Jiang Qing and her
group, however, this point seemed too subtle for a viewing audience to
grasp. Thus Qu Bo's character, as he first appeared on the stage, was
denounced as "a filthy-mouthed desperado and a reckless muddle-headed
adventurer recking with handit odour from top to toe."''^

Qu Bo, rather convincuigly, had Yang acknowledge the handit Eagle as
his leader; the later Peking opera versions have him "hold the initiative"
and "lead Vulture [i.e., Eagle' by the nose round and round the stage. '""^
Furthermore, this scout, as the principal hero, stands "head and shoulders

See Zhitju Weihushan (Shanghai: Shanghai wenhua, 1965). This is the earliest version
to which 1 have had access; it differs considerably from the 1967 version, whidi was merely

polished to form the "moder edition of 1970. See "Taking the Bandits' Stronghold,'* Chi-
m'<c Literature, September 1967, pp. 129— IS I; a sHghtly diffcrrnr version in Fhon, Fife
Commutitst Chinese I'lays, pp. 155-210; Taking the Bandits' Stronghold (Peking; horeign
Languages Press, 1969); **Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy," in Oiina Reconstructs 19,2
(February 1970); Zhiqu Weihushan (Hong Kong: Sanlian shudian, 1969) (reprint from Hong
qi. November 1969, pp. 32-61), translated as "Taking Tiger Mountain bv Str.utgv," in
Chinese l iterature, january 1970, pp. .?-5'', and reprinted in johti V). Mitchell, ed.. I'he Red
Pear Carden (Boston: (jodine, 1973), pp. 2U3-285. The final version ot 1970 was published
in Peking by Renmin wenxue in 1970 and translated into English as, again. Taking Tiger
Mountain by Strategy (Peking: Foreign Languages Press, 1970).

Hung Ping, "A Fine Peking Opera on a Revolutionar>' Modern Theme," Chinese
Literature, August 1967, p. 187 (translated from Hong qi, August I'-'d^. pp.

^ "Strive to Create," p. 62. Huang {Heroes and Villains, pp. 145-147i discusses briefly
how Qu Bo*s diaracter was ossified to serve the purposes of the model opera.

" "Strive to Create," p. 69.

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ROBER 1 t. HtGtL

above the masses" and even above all other heroes, hi his development,
Yang Zirong thus exemplihes one trend initiated in contcmpt)rary Chmese
fiction by Mao's Yan'an "Talks": a simpliHeation in the name ot popular-
ization and an even more cautious use of specific traditional models."^ As a
consequence, Yang Zirong and most of the other characters m the model
opera version became just as stereotyped as any on the traditional stage or
in old popular adventure novels. The adaptations were thus selective and,
most importantly, reminiscent of the general features of earlier popular
literature.

In conclusion, one can discern in these few contemporary works signifi-
cant elements of traditional narratives and narrative techniques. It was
common enough in the old fiction and drama to borrow scenes and type-
characters. Recent examples of this sort of borrowing can be found in
Daughters and Sons and Tracks in the Snowy Forest, the sources for which
include the classic novels Water Margin and Romance of the Three King-
doms. But here the model from the past is the literati novel, a literary
pastime of the old elite. The emphasis on action without moral introspec-
tion that W IS characteristic of the more popular novels of the Qing period
is reflected in contemporary works such as the multitude of war tales.
Dogmatic interpretations of Mao Zedong's "Talks at the Yan'an Forum"
shifted the model for characterization from the literati no\ cls to the adven-
ture tales and popular dramatic works w ritten for less well-educated audi-
ences of the past. While middle characters in more realistic works of recent
Chinese fiction parallel the complex characters of the artistically refined
old w orks, the heroes of revolutionary model opera are more like those of
the traditional theatrical forms.

In 1942, Mao Zedong called on writers to set their highest priority on
"popularization." To some writers, this meant "simplification," the dele-
tion of ambiguity and of all moral or political complexity. By writing in a
version of the spoken language rather than in the more artificial literary
medium of Ming-Qing adventure novels, Party-directed writers from the
1940s to the 1970s followed the practice of the old literati novels to a
certain extent. Their increasingly overt didacticism certainly owes more to
literati novels than to more popular fiction. But, in terms of characteriza-
tion, contemporary works of this period moved ever closer to the often
wooden exemplars of the old popular fiction and drama, in which every

** One might speculate on the iniplK.itions of the diminished role the PI. A commander
pinys in the model opera. The opera places less emphasis on formal leadership, disciplme, and
rhf like, and at the same time glorifies the possibilities tor individual initiative when the hero
holds "Mao Zedong Thought" in his nimd and is "at one with the masses." Ihis schema
certainly suggests a new chain of command that would bypass formal structures — such a
system as did indeed devdop during the Cultural Revolution.

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MAKlNCi I Hh I'Ab i StRVh I HL I'RLSLN I

223

character is fully revealed in moral terms at his or her first appearance.
This movement toward ''revolutionary romanticism" and the "three
prominences" idealized heroes and villams to a degree congruent with that
of Confucian moral tales. But. to the extent that the characters were
simultaneously deprived ot their iuiman coniplc\ii\, they became as pre-
dictable as their predecessors in older works and, hence, less appealing to
mature, experienced readers. The greater seriousness with which certain
works of fiction have approached moral and pohtical questions since 1976
is unquestionably a reaction against this simplicity. Consequently, the in-
fluence of the elite vernacular fiction of the Ming and Qing periods may
again become discernible — ^if the past continues to be made to **serve the
present."

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TEN

A Notable Sermon:

The Subtext
of Hao Ran's Fiction

Michael Egan

Contemporary C^hinesc liieraturc presents a iink|iic challenge to literary
criticism. In Clima, as in the West, concepts of stability and change help to
dehne works of literature and literary periods. Points ot identity and of
difference between and among texts form the basis of any historical discus-
sion of literature. In the Furopean tradition, when one speaks of the Clas-
sical or Neoclassical periods, or of the Renaissance, Romantic, or even
Beatnik eras, one is reternng to a unit ot time that has been substantially,
perhaps even primarily, defined by literature.' A historical approach to
Chinese literature also yields well-defined periods, as well as types of
forms, genres, and subject matter that can be placed in relation to one
another by analysis of their similarities and differences, both structural and
thematic. This is as true for contemporary Communist literature as it is for
the Chinese classics. Any student of contemporary Chinese literature al-
most automatically classifies a work of fiction as having been written by a
member of the May Fourth generation, or as belonging to the Hundred
Flowers period, the Great Leap Forward, or the Great Proletarian Cultural
Revolution. The most recent categories of fiction in this catalogue are
Gang of Four and post-Gang-of-Four literature*

But the historical taxonomies of Western and traditional Chinese litera-
ture reveal a fundamental difference from that of post-Liberation China.
While it is true that contemporary Chinese literature has helped to define
and express the thought of the periods mentioned, the changes in literature
came about not as the result of any "^natural" gi i^i nc growth and develop-
ment (insofar as any literature can be said to develop ''naturally** within

' From a series of symposia on history and literature, conducted by Ralph Cohen at the
University of Toronto in March 1979.

224

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THt SUBTtX I Oh HAO RAN S ML I ION

225

its social, political, and economic context) but as the direct result of
changes in Partv policy that were imposed from above. While the reflec-
tion of societal structures in Western or bourgeois works ot fiction may be
haphazard or unconscious, in contemporary China the rel.uiunship be-
tween a work of art and its political basis in historical materialism is
obvious and undisguised. Historical categories in Communist Chinese lit-
erature are extrinsic and artificial; society defines literary parameters be-
fore literature has a chance to deHne and reflect society.

This faa adds yet another difficulty to the already formidable task
facing the Western reader of Chinese literature. Hans Robert Jauss wrote
that **in the triangle of author, work and reading public the latter is no
passive part, no chain of mere reactions, but even history making energy.
The historical life of a literary work is unthinkable without the aaive
participation of its audience."^ Since no work of art or of literature can
function, much less endure or succeed, if it does not speak for and capture
a public, the test of effectiveness becomes very important. Do the mecha-
nisms of a literary text work? If so, how do they work? Further, if we are
to call a literary work (any or all of Hao Ran*s novels discussed below, for
example) successful, for whom is it successful? Does a contemporary text
have the same meaning for a Chinese as for a Western reader, who might
have no special knowledge of China and who might have to approach the
text in translation? Even among Chinese readers, later generations (politi-
cal as well as chronological) will probably have more problems to solve
than the original readers. The linguistic and political codes of the text will
be most accessible to its contemporary readers. The codes used by succes-
sive generations of readers w ill. w ith the passage of time, diverge more and
more from the code ot the text. If the difference in code between reader
and text is drastic, as is the difference between a c(Mnc mporary Western
reader and the political, linguistic, and social code of a Communist Chi-
nese novel, the dislocation can be extreme. Even to a Chinese reader, the
changes in the literary code from period to period since 1^4^ must have
been distracting.

Many of these changes can be seen in the work of Hao Kan, a writer
who more than any other represented the C^hmese literary establishment
over the ten years from 1964 to 1974. This paper will look at the three
major works he wrote during this time: the long novels Yjnyiui^ tian
[Bright sunny skies] c\nd JingHiUi^ dadjo ( The road of golden light] and the
short novel Xisha crnii (Sons and daughters of Xishaj.

In his study of these two long novels, W ong Kam-ming has made the
case that one of the chief differences between Bright Sunny Skies and I he

Hans Robert jauss, "I iterary Hisron- as a C'hallenge ro I irt'rarv Theory," in Kalph
Lohen, ed.. New Directions in Literary Iheory (Baltimore; Johnh Hopkiiib University Press,
1974), pp. 11-41. Quote from p. 12.

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MICHAtL tGAN

Roihi of CioUicn Light is that the plot of the toriiier is most concerned with
"class struggle" and that of the latter with "line struggle."' That is, the
main focus of the plot in Bright Simuy Skies is on the development of the
characters' powers of awareness and cognition, which will then permit
them to recognize and deal with class struggle when it occurs in their
village. In The Road of Golden Lights the plot is based upon the im-
plementation of the correct line for developing cooperatives and collectiv-
ization. Both novels are extremely and self-consciously political, with no
apologies.

For all that the novels share great similarities, however, when questions
of response and popularity are raised it seems that Bright Sunny Skies is
more accessible and more enjoyable than The Road of Golden Light* Yet
Bright Sunny Skies is no less overtly political, in intent and execution, than
The Road of Golden Light, In one of the many, many references to the
political nature of Bright Sunny Skies, Hao Ran has said that he was ready
to begin work on the novel but his seniors at the Red Flag editorial office
advised him to wait.

"Study the communique issued by the Tenth Plenary Central Committee of the
Communist Party, at the end uf its Eighth Session,** they told me. And 1 did. . . .
They sent me back down to the countryside again in November of that year to
learn h-om real life. A month later 1 remmed to my office, thinking that at last 1
must be ready to begin my novel.

But more smdy awaited me at Red Flag. I had to review the Anti-Rightist
Movement and struggle in 1957 and the Chairman's statements on that move-
ment. . . .

1 must he ready now, I thought. Bur no. rhc Ic.ulership insisrcd that 1 study
some foreign material first . . . on the second General Assembly of the Soviet
Russian Communist Party, the stuff on Greater Democracy championed by
Khrushchev and his gang. 1 discovered the world wide implications of the class
struggle and the subtlety of the devious attacks we must be on guard against.^

The argument that Bright Sunny Skies might be esthetically more effec-
tive because it is less overtly political does not work; both novels are
equally and unremittingly political. If the problem of the relative effective-
ness of these two novels is defined as U ing m the relationship between text
and reader, rather than between author and text, the questions become:

^ Wong Kani-ming, "A Study ot Hao Ran s 1 wo Novels: Art and Politics in Bright Sunny
Skies and The Road of Golden Light,"* in Wolfgang Kubin and Rudolph G. Wagner, eJs.,
Essays in Modem Otinese Literattire and Literary Criticism (Bochum, FRG: Brockmeier
Press, 1982), pp. 117-149.

"* This siihjective sr.irement reflects horh my own snhjecrive response to the texts and the
views ol readers, both Chinese and Western, who were questioned on the topic.

^ Quoted in Kai-yu Hsu, The Chinese Literary Scene (New York: Vintage, 1975), pp. 92-

93.

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1 HE SUB l tXT OF HAG RAN'S MCI ION

227

How do Hao Rail's novels coinnuinicatc with their readers? How does a
work ot literature get its message across? hi the words of Michael Riffa-
terre, "Literature is made of texts, not intentions; . . . texts are made of
words, not things or ideas.""' What hterary devices does Hao Ran use to
encode the text's message to its readers? And is it possible that Hao Ran
uses different codes in his various novels?

Structurally, Bright Sunny Skies and The Road of Golden Light have a
great deal in common. Both are very long, episodic novels, with large casts
of charaaers. Both texts owe a great deal to traditional Chinese fiction
and share the techniques of omniscient third-peison narration, complete
with rhetorical intrusions. However, an examination of the two texts
might show significant differences in the way their respective messages are
encoded.

Hao Ran is justifiably famous as a master of characterization. Both Joe
C. Huang and W. J. F. Jenner have written about the skill with which Hao
Ran can bring characters to life on the printed page. Hao Ran*s technique
deserves re-examination, however, because it varies from novel to novel,
and each variation speaks to the reader in a different way.

Joe Huang has pointed out the importance of the love affair between
Xiao Changchun and Jiao Shuhong in Bright Sunny Skies.^ His insight that
**Bright Sunny Skies is a novel of harsh political struggle, hut is considera-
bly humanized by an interlacing love story**^ is invaluable. As Huang
writes:

Xiao Changchun, as a socialist hero, seems to have two sides; the public side
which satisfies ideology, and the private side which gives life to an artistic
image. He is painted as a man of tough fiber in dealing with matters of a
political nature. Yet at the private level, in his relations with relatives,
friends, and neighbors, and in love, he proves to be a man of warm feelings.^

It IS not only the love between Xiao CJiangchun and jiao Shuhong that
humanizes the highly political plot of Bright Sunny Skies. Xiao also en-
counters a temptation to adultery in the person of the backward and
misled woman, Sun Guiying — although ' temptation** is perhaps not quite
the mot juste, because there is not the slightest chance that the stalwart
and upright Party Secretary will succumb to Guiying*s transparent bland-
ishments. Nonetheless, the attempted seduction in Chapter 74 is extremely
interesting.

* Michael Riftaterre, "The StyUstic Approach to Literary History," in Ralph Cohen, ed.,
New DirectioHS in Literary Theory (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1974), pp.
147-164. Quote from p. 147.

^ Joe C. Huang, "Hao Ran, the Peasant Novelist," Modem China 2,3 (July 1976): 369-
396.

ibid., p. 38i.
< Ibid.

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MiCHAtL tGAN

First of al!, Guiying is a wavering "middle" character, a poor peasant
and orphan wliose whole litc is a histor\ of suffering. Her father was killed
during the Japanese invasion and her mother was forced to hecomc the
mistress of a fat, sixty-year-old butcher. At the age of thirteen, while her
mother was ill, she was raped by the butcher.'® The reader is not surprised
to learn that, given this background, she was soon applying makeup.
Blossoming into an ''evil flower,** she took a job as a waitress in a tea-
house. She is often described as muddle-headed and as easy prey for bad
people. At the same time, her great suffering and class background give her
the potential for reform and redemption, if only she can be influenced by
the right people. She has been tricked by the evil landlord Ma Zhiyue into
marrying his protege, Ma Lianfu, with whom she is quite disappointed.
Thus, she is an easy victim for Ma Zhiyue's wife, who wants to entrap and
discredit Xiao Changchun by having Guiying seduce him.

Ma Fenglan, the panderess, is described very unflatteringly by the au-
thor. She is fat and smelly and waddles like a duck. Her legs are like two
white radishes, and she does not wipe the rheum from her eyes." She
passionately hates the revolution because she lost everything, including her
dowry and first betrothed, during land reform. Damningly, she had sexual
relations with Ma Zhiyue before being married to him. So, however much
these evil character traits may endear her to the reader, no good can be
expected from her. She is irredeemably bad.

The reader is not surprised when, through a series of elaborately calcu-
lated moves. Ma Fenglan fans the flames of Cuiying's passion for Xiao
Changchun (with whom Ciuiying had fallen m love from afar while she
was still working in the teahouse . First she suggests that Xiao is attracted
to Guiying, then gives her a handkerchiet, saying that it is a present from
Xiao. Finally, while Ciuiying's husband Ma Lianfu is at an irrigation work-
site, she rouses Ciuiying to fever pitch with suggesine conversation. She
implies that Xiao is ripe for a tall after three years of being a widower:
"Ma Fenglan pretended to sigh, 'Ai! Men are all the same! Secretary
Xiao's been a bachelor for three years, how do you think he stands it.'' I
suffer for him. Why should you laugh? It's true!'

After Ma Fenglan departs, the narrative reveals the state to which Gui-
ying has been aroused:

In the last few days the crafty and cunning daughter of a landlord, Ma
Fenglan, had been stuffing kindling into her head. The exchange of words
that they had by the river yesterday was like pouring oil on drv kindling.
And when she had returned home, the handkerchief which had tlown into

Hao Ran, Yanyan^ tian (Peking: Renmin wenxue, 1972), pp. 836-841.
" Ibid., pp. 963, 1263.
" Ibid., p. 964.

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i THE SUBTEXl Oh HAO RAN'S FICTION 229

^ her h.inds heated the kindling and dried it out even more. An intense flame

leapt up inside Sun Guiying and clouded her senses.'^

Thus, the careful process of incitement is very neatly described by the
elaborate development of the kindling imagery. When the kindling bursts
into flame, the result is a foregone conclusion:

Pretending to be lying down on the kang. Sun Guiying said in a soft voice,
**Do come in and sit down.**

Xiao Changchun entered the room but as soon as he saw Sun Guiying*s hcc

and the expression in her eyes he b^;an to have doubts about her. . . .

Sun (luiying curled up on the kivit:; and whispered softly and coquettishly,
' Elder brother, I've no use for a doctor. Can't you do something for my

illness?"

Xiao Changchun saw through the woman's intention instantly. He was in-
dignant, yet he found her vulgar display laughable. He pretended not to have
heard what she had just said and turned to walk away. . . .

With one leap. Sun Guiying darted to the door, blocking Xiao Changchun's
exit. **What's the hurry? Now that Lianfu*s not home, can't you even sit for a
while in my house

Xiao Changchun did his best to restrain his anger. His thoughts took a new
turn and he stood still.

The attempted seduction ends when Xiao tells her, with proper righ-
teousness: ^'YouVe got it all wrong. 1, Xiao Changchun, am not this kind
of man." Having rebuffed her, Xiao softens the blow by giving her a little
homily intended both to educate her and to put her bizarre behavior into
perspective:

C^alni down and thuik things over. You're not entirely to he hlained tor your
less than honorable first thirty years. They have been thrust upon you trom
the old society; you are but a victim. But we are now living in a new society.
It's not like the past anymore. You'll have to decide where you want to go
and what you want to do. You ought to take the new road of light which is
socialism. And for the next thirty years, stand up, transform yourself, and
become a working woman. "^^

Even though Xiao's relations with the women Sun Guiying and Jiao
Shuhong are very different, there is still a basic and revealing similarity.
The man is the more advanced politically, and his superior position is one
of tutelage. A relationship between persons of opposite sexes is used, over
and above its universal human interest, to convey an ideological message.
The technique occurs more than once in Bright Sunny Skies, Han Baizhong
and his wife Jiao Erju are another couple who are used for didaaic pur*

" Ibid., p. 965.

ibid., pp. 970-971.
» Ibid., p. 972.

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MiCHALL htjAN

poses. They are portrayed with warmth, skill, and sympathy. Han Bai-
zhong gives Erju the task of winning over her brother's wife, who has been
associating w ith bad people. 1 he couple's interdependence and closeness is
neatly and economically depicted:

[Han Baizhong] was some distance from his house when he realized (hat Jiao
Erju was not home. When the Elementary Agricultural Cooper uive was first
set up, their house was used as the otHce. tver since that time, they fell into
the habit of never barring their gate, day or night. When someone was at
home, the doors were kept wide open; when no one was there they were
only pulled shut. Unlike city folks who left notes for their mates when they
were out of the house, neither of them could read or write. Like die busy
people they were, husband and wife would run home to eat and hardly have
time to put down their chopsticks before having to run out of the house
again. Even if they had been literate neither of them would have thought to
check the table top for a note. However, they haJ their own way to commu-
nicate. There was a piece of chalk in a crack m the brickwork. They would
use it to scratch a symbol of their destination on the gate. For the rields, a
square; for the temple, a roof-like triangle. For a visit to Ma Cuiqing's house
die diaracter for woman was used; for doing the laundry a few wavy lines.
All they had to do was take one look at the symbol to know instandy where
the other person was.*^

This passage, along with other, similar material, establishes the context
within which several important political struggles are earned out. F>)u, the
political inferior of her husband, is educated by him and learns the correct
way to approach people about their backwardness. Before she knows bet-
ter, she tries to win people over by methods such as bribery or matchmak-
ing, and the people she tries to educate are in-laws or relatives.'^ Thus, the
novers political themes and problems are constantly posed in personal
terms that have an immediate impact upon the novel's audience, whatever
its level of political sophistication. Even a Western audience, unfamiliar
with or possibly hostile to communism, would have no trouble identifying
with, and thus being drawn into the plot by, a husband-wife theme, in-law
problems, seduction, or a love interest. The political struggles themselves
are of the most accessible sort. They have to do with conquering what are
recognized as universal character traits and flaws: greed, envy, jealousy,
and selfishness. Political debate and practice in Bright Sunny Skies are not
matters of power struggles, factionalization, and ideological hairsplitting.
They are, rather, presented in the form of such praaical problems as
family disagreements and misunderstandings, of a sort that would not be
out of place in American popular media.

Bright Sunny Skies uses other methods as well to insure audience re-

"Ibid., pp. 512-513.
" Ibid., chap. 39.

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sponsc. The seduction scene quoted earlier presents remarkable parallels to
traditional Chinese literature. Wu Song and Jinlian ("Golden Lotus") play
out similar scenes in Shuihu zhuan [Water margin) and Jin Ping Mei
[Golden lotus), complete with matchmaking, firewood and stove imagery,
and the punchline "I am not this sort of man.**

(^laracters are often presented in a way tliat should strike a responsive
chord in a traditional Chinese audience. Ma Fenglan is drawn as a typical
villainess; Jiao Erju, a positive character, is the portrait on the other side of
the traditional coin. She is first described as a forty-year-old woman,
coarse and strong like the trunk of a locust tree. Her father died when she
was very young. Because her feet were never bound, she bears the nick-
name '*Big Feet Erju.** Footbinding has become symbolic of the enslave-
ment of women in the old society, and the emphasis on Jiao Erju*s im-
bound feet is used to hammer this point home.** At first, her big feet are a
source of suffering to her; insecurity about them inclines her to reject a
marriage proposal, and she is taunted:

Those whose tread is like thunder's crack,
Will always have hardship on their back."

Later, however, her big feet prove to be her salvation. They enable her to
flee from Landlord Ma and escape to Peking. When her husband is hurt,
she saves the day by pulling a rickshaw to earn their livelihood. Her whole
story (from nickname to exploits) is very evocative, because it is based on
an emotional subject matter that a Chinese readership can instantly iden-
tify with.

Throughout the novel, language also causes reverberations. There are
frequent implicit and explicit references to Buddhism. Sun Guiying, in her
regret over the fiasco of her attempt at seduction, thinks, "She had com-
mitted a crime against Xiao Changchun, and a whole lifetime could never
wash away her sins."'*' When Jiao Shuhong went to struggle with Guiying,
"She walked up to Sun Ciuiying with a serious and solcinii face looking
like the God of Plague." ' When Guiying is won over, this dialogue takes
place:

"How quickly you change. You sound like you*ve just ended a vegetarian fast,"
said Ma Cuiqing.

Angrily Sun Guiying said, "End a vegetarian fast? If I were in your shoes Pd
go to their front door and curse them for eight generations."'^^

" Ibid., pp. 55-59.
" Ibid., p. 57.

^°Ibid., p. 1244.

Ibid., p. 1246.
" Ibid., p. 1250.

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MICHAEL EGAN

When people in the novel die, they go to meet King Yama.

Hao Ran is famous for his "peasant language.** His characters often
speak with an earthy coarseness that all can respond to: "Is there anyone
who d put rouge on their backside mstead of their facer";'' " I'hat bitch
Ma Fcnglan, all water stinks that dritts downstream from her";"' "Flies
flock to the sound of a fart";"' and "The children are all big caters like
their father — they eat a pot and shit a kang."^^

Sometimes older novels are referred to directly, as in **! feel like Pigsy
holding a mirror to his face to discover that he's non-human both inside
and out.**^^ Sometimes the reference is indirect, as when a bloody oath
might recall the exuberant excesses of Water Margin: they're really
short of grain, you can pluck m> eyeballs out and stamp on them like
bubbles."^'

The quotations cited here do more than demonstrate the vitality of Hao
Ran's prose and the skill with which he uses language. They constitute a
rich matrix in which are imbedded the nuggets of Hao Ran*s ideological
message. The references to Buddhism, to human and family life, and to
general situations that may be familiar to readers of early texts need not be
specific in order to create a context of convention and presupposition with
which a reader can identify. Further, it does not greatly matter if these
conventions and presuppositions cannot be traced to their sources and
positively identified; they still constitute a general intertcxtualitv that
serves as a sort of sounding board against which the text at hand. Bright
Sunny Skies, can reverberate. These conventions reside not necessarily in
the text but in the reader, whose response is activated by the text.

Readers encounter a general intertextuality, which Roland Barthes has
described:

I [am] not an innocent subject, anterior to the text This T which

approaches the text is already itself a plurality of other texts, of codes which
are infinite or, more precisely, lost (whose origins are lost).^'

Intertextuality is less a description of a work's relation to particular prior
texts than it is an assertion of a work's dialogue with its readers, a dia-
logue instituted by activating codes that a reader has already consciously
or unconsciously absorbed. The study of intertextuality is not necessarily
the investigation of sources and influences, as traditionally conceived; it

" Ibid.

Ibid., p. 1249.
« Ibid., p. 514.

^Mbid., p. 518.

^ Ibid., p. 525. The reterence is to a character in Xi you /i U"urn«Jy to the west].
Ibid., p. 514.

^ Roland Barthes, S/Z (New York: Hill 6c Wang, 1974), p. 10.

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233

might include anonymous discursive practices or codes whose origins are
lost/" Insofar as Brigl)t Sunny Skies can be called successful, it succeeds
because it activates codes that are shared by its audience. Many of those
codes arc accessible to a Western as well as to a Chinese audience. The
intertexiualiiy of Ihtght Sunny Skies — that is, the relationship between the
text and its codes and tiic discursive practices of its culture — helps to
articulate that culture and its possibilities.

In The Road of Golden Light, a reader can detect a substantial change
in Hao Ran*s use of sigiis and codes. Stylistically, the novel is similar to
Bright Sunny Skies, and Hao Ran still demonstrates his mastery of col-
loquial language. Some areas of similarity to and difference from tradi-
tional fiction, along with Hao Ran*s reliance on traditional storytelling
techniques, have already been commented on by Cyril Birch.^* Certainly,
Hao Ran's characteristic use of language and of traditional devices lends
an air of continuity to the later novel. Moreover, the novels* common
generic form — their length, semi-episodic nature, and large casts of char-
acters — ^itself constitutes one type of intertextual relationship with tradi-
tional fiction. Nonetheless, the literary structures of The Road of Golden
Light seem to be based on a different set of assumptions than those of
Bright Sunny Skies.

For instance, references to Buddhism or to traditional culture in the
everyday speech of the characters have been eliminated or greatly reduced.
In a work written after the Cultural Revolution had begun and stricter
demands for revolutionary correctness were being made, there might be
two reasons for this. If the positive characters or heroes used such modes
of speech, it would denote a certain backwardness in their thinking, thus
making them less worthy of emulation. Second, there is in the very use of
prerevokitionary modes of discourse a code that is perceived as being in
opposition to the correct practice of revolutionary literature. The symbolic
structure of The Rmui of Golden Light is supposed to refer to revolution-
ary goals and glory, not to remind readers of an undesirable past.^"

Characterization m Lhe Road of Golden Light has also changed, al-
though there are many similarities between that novel and Bright Sunny
Skic-s. Both iu)\els have as hero an outstanding Party tnember, whose stcjry
functions as a unifying plot element, stringing together and giving continu-
ity to a multitude of incidents. The political development of the hero, as he
learns more and more about class and Une struggle, provides the main moral

^ See Julia Kristeva, Semeotiki (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1969), pp. 146-180.

" Cyril Birch, "Continuity and Change in Chinese Fiction," in Merle Goldman, cd.,
Modern Chinese LiWrature in the May Fourth Era (Cambridge Mass.: Harvard University
Press, 1977), pp. ^S5-4()4.

For an excellent discussion of symbolism in The Road of L>oUien Light, see Wong
Kam-ming, "Study of Hao Ran's Two Novels."

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MlCHAtL tGAN

lesson of each text. Thus, The Road of Golden Light can he read as a
quest, a sort of revokitionary, Communist updating of Pilgrim's Progn'ss,
with a hero who evolves and distills a set of rigorous moral standards.

However, modes of characterization seem to have changed in The Road
of Golden Light in at least two ways, and each change has had an impor-
tant effect on reader response. The villains in The Road of Golden Light,
while still familiar to the reader, are recognized because they are flat,
cliched figures, not because they seem like old friends from old novels.
While the behavior of a woman such as Ma Fenglan in Bright Sunny Skies
is totally stereotyped and predictable, she is nonetheless lovingl) depicted;
she is an endearing troublemaker whose behavior starts a familiar but
enjoyable story cycle. That the cycle's most recent incarnation comes in a
Conununist context might even serve to heighten the reader's curiosity:
how will the tale work itself out in its modem guise?

The archvillain of Bright Sunny Skies, Pigtail Ma, may not be a familiar
figure from traditional literature, but he is very human and well moti-
vated; it is perhaps too easy to identify with and understand him. He is
driven to desperation by the loss of the familial burial site, and his eco-
nomic motivation is very strong. His idea that grain should be distributed
not to each according to his needs hut to each according to his work, or in
proportion to the amount of land he has contributed to the collective, was
not expressed only by a few fictional and reactionary blackguards. Pigtail
Ma's ideas on land reform and grain distribution were also held at the
highest Party levels.'' His fear for his own soul and for the souls of his
ancestors, and his greed (understandable in the context of the Party de-
bates of the 1950s), humanize him and provide him with motivation that
makes his behavior comprehensible, if not forgivable.

Rv way of contrast, the negative characters in The Road of Golden
Light seem to have no reason for their evil natures but their class back-
ground. Fan Keming is one-dimensionally evil by nature and is much less
interesting than Pigtail Ma, Other bad elements in The Road of Golden
Light — Feng Shaohuai, Qin Fu, and Zhang jinfa, for example — lack all
but the most transparent sort of motivation. The evil they work is banal
and, ultimately, boring.

Kinship is another area where intertextual Hliations with traditional
works seem less strong in The Road of Golden Light than they were in
Bright Sunny Skies. An example is the relationship between the former's
main hero, Gao Daquan, and his brother Eriin. The pair had been through
a lot together; they had seen friends and loved ones die because of the

"Resolution ot the C entral C^ommittee of the Chinese Communist Pnrtv on the Fstab-
lishment ot Peoples' Communes m Rural Areas" (29 August 1958), in Robert Bowie and J. K.
Fairbank, Communist China, 19S5-S9: Policy Documents with Amdysis (Cambridge, Mass.:
Harvard University Press, 1962), pp. 454-456.

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23S

oppression of the old society and known grinding poverty because they
had been landless. After working then- way from Shandong to Hebei, they
were finally given land by the Party, to which each was wildly grateful.
Love ot the soil is the great bond between them:

Even though the land they trod on hadn*t received its spring plowing, it was
already soft and moist; it warmed their hearts.

Gao F.rlin laughed with delight. "In our old home the unplowed land was
hard as a board; hen- it\ soft like a cotton quilt, inakcs me want to lie down for
a nap. . . . Somftinus l in atraid this is only a dream. . .

Gao Daquan replied to his younger brother: "^ou and 1 may never have
dreamed of this, but the old revolutionary comrades thought it all out. So many
people shed their life blood to liberate the poor peasants. Remember that this
land was bought with the blood of heroes. Remember them, and you*ll know
that this good land didn't just drop into our hands; they paid for it with their
lives, and the Communist Party gave it to us.**^

For all their shared experience and love of land, the brothers grow apart
for ideological reasons. However, their previous closeness does not make
their estrangment more poignant, it only makes it seem improbable. Erlin,
rather than work for a mutual-aid team and help to establish collectiviza-
tion, eleas to go it alone. He tries to advance himself economically
through his own individual efforts. After being manipulated by the malign
Feng Shaohual into marrying Feng's cousin, he goes to work for Feng as a
hired carter. There he is open for exploitation by bad elements.

Erlin's relationship to Gao Daquan does not have much effect on the
reader's reaction to his plight. In Bright Sunny Skies, a universal loyalty to
kinship and blood relationships was part of the code of intertextuality
between work and reader; in The Road of Golden Light, the intertextual-
ity relies more on the reader's political sophistication to trigger emotional
and esthetic response:

Gao Daquan said to his brother: " I hat's all tine. But if you can't tell good
people from bad, the right path from the wrong path, youMl be misled, and
never get anywhere. Erlin, am 1 getting through to you^**

Erlin looked at his brother and glanced away, "Don't worry, Vm not
stupid. . . .**

"Stupid or not stupid, your mind has been on wealth and you haven't been

sffing things clearly. When you have time, visit some families who have joined
mutual aid teams; listen to them, study their ideas. Then look at what they're
wearing and see what the\"re eating and what ihev'\e got stored up. Compare
what they have now with what they had bctorc tiity |omcd the mutual aid
teams, widi what you have since youVe taken the wrong road. Then itUl be
really plain that socialism is best; the shining road will be clear to you.**^^

^ Hao Ran, Jinguuttg dadao (Hong Kong: San lian, 1974), 1:325-326.
" Ibid., 2:495.

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It would seem from this passage that the two brothers differ simply on the
question of which hue to adhere to (ircMiically, when Erhn turns heretic
because of his selfish desire for greater personal wealth. Daquan seeks to
reform him by appeal to his greed). There is no motivation, no human
drama, save that which sprouts from political seeds.

The sad tale of Liu Wan and his wife provides another example. Liu
Wan had "resolutely" stood with Gao Daquan at the time of land reform
but, after getting his share of land and a cow, he, like Erlin, became selfish
and preoccupied with self-interest:

When the slogan "Build up the family fortune" ifii jia zhi fn] was going
around, he took the revisionist slogan to heart) and made money by traveling
to neighboring villages to sell his labor.^^

Liu Wan's father had been a doctor and his family had previously been
well off. But the family fell on evil days, the property was divided, and
poor Liu Wan got only two mu of poor land, which he soon had to

mortgage.' Transparently, this checkered class background prepares the
reader for Liu Wan's irresponsible behavior. For all of his faults, though,
he is a good man; when he goes wrong and joins a bogus mutual-aid team
it is because he has been tricked by Zhang Jinfa and Feng Shaohuai.
Members of the false mutual-aid team really only work for themselves;
they think their families will grow richer if they rely on their own re-
sources and refuse to share. Only rich peasants and unscrupulous scoun-
drels can make this system work, however, and 1 lu Wan Hnds hmiself m a
terrible fix. After dclaymg plowing (due to Feng and Zhang), he sows too
late; then the rainy season arrives and his plot is overgrown with weeds.
At the same time, his wife gives birth. He is trantic; he has to cook, care
for his wife, care for his children, care for his cow. And the rains never let
up; they are floodmg his fields. His agony as he is forced to watch his
precious crops die before his very eyes is almost unbearable. It would take
five days of weeding to clear his fields."*

Liu Wan is a well-drawn and human character. The reader can identify
with all his emotions; his flaws serve to humanize him. Tormented with
worry, he is yet a proud man. He tries to get the bogus mutual-aid team to
help him; when they refuse, he is too stubborn to admit his errors and seek
help from the Party. Liu Wan*s wife tells him that Party Secretary Gao is
eager to help, but Liu Wan says he doesn't have the ''face" to ask. Uu
Wan*s story is told in an almost naturalistic fashion and with great inten-
sity. He cannot sleep, and his thoughts are as tangled as a ball of string; he
has nightmares. He gets up early, eats a meager breakfast without tasting

^ Ibid., 2:449-500.
^'Ibid.. 2:511-512.
» Ibid., 2:571.

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THt SUliTtX r OF HAO RAN S HCI ION 2J7

It, and goes off to his Hclds to do as much as he can by himself. As he toils,
the sweat pouring off of him, he sees someone working with him in the
Held, laboriouslv and clumsily hoeing with a trowel. It is his wife, squat-
ting over rhc seedlings, only four days after giving hirth. She refuses to
stop and Liu Wan returns to his labor, emotionally overcome, his mind a
mixture of warmth and bitterness.

The day is stifling, the sun blazing. Suddenly clouds gather, a wind
springs up and there is a rumble of thunder. They rise to go home before
the deluge, but the wife's legs buckle and go numb. She is very sick. Gao
Daquan and members of the good mutual-aid team are summoned, but it
is too late. Uu Wan's fields will be taken care of by the mutual-aid team,
but his wife cannot be saved. Gao Daquan is at her bedside. Her last
words are:

"Too late, too late. ... If onlv we'd followed you, and joined your mutual aid
team earlier, how much better things would be. . . . loo late."

Gao Daquati replied, "It's not too late, hi the lall we'll start an a^jricultural
cooperative, and yea and Liu Wan are invited to be its first members.'*

The sick woman shook her head. **I won't live to see the day.** Her eyes
shining with light, she asked him, **Party Secretary, please take care of our two
children, of my husband ..."

"Don't worry, we're bitter fruit from the same vine. We'll take the socialist
road together."

A smile came over the face of the sick woman, and she slowly closed her

eyes.

Hao Ran seems to totally destroy the effect of some of his best writing
by following it with some of his worst. The reader is genuinely moved by
the desperation and suffering of Liu Wan, yet the death of his wife is
presented in such a way that it is almost trivialized. She is killed off ro
punish him for having taken a wrong Une and to provide him with the
moral lesson he needs so that he can reform:

<*rve killed her! I've killed her! Oh . . Gao . . . comforts him, **Uncle,
unde, set your heart at rest. You aren't entirely to blame. It wasn't you who
killed her, it was the path that you took; following it cost her life."^

Hao Ran spells it out through the mouth of I'arty Secretary Cjao: a
human relationship did not kill her, politics did. This speech does not ring
true. Despite the power of Hao Ran's prose, the death scene is too con-
trived to be convincing. Granted, Liu is a stubborn man, and his fear of
losing face is a legitimate one. But he knows that losing his crops means
starvation for his family, and he knows that he is working his wife to

^ Ibid., 2:585-586.
Ibid., 2:586.

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MICHAEL tGAN

death. And /re, the audience, know that nothing will happen to him if he
changes his innid, denounces the baddies, and )oins a proper mutual-aid
team. So the entire melodramatic buildup, effective as it is, is meaningless,
even counterproductive. Liu Wan, like Gao Erlin, has an escape hatch all
along. That he is too stupid to use it weakens him as a character; the
reader's response to him is one of frustration.

The reason that the subplots such as those about Liu Wan and Gao
Erlin do not work is that at first the characters rely on "traditionar
filiations to arouse reader response. A family or kinship situation, the
batde of a farmer with the elements, or a feud, or fear of death — all can
provide subtexts that are universal, identifiable by all readers. But the type
of fiaion that Hao Ran is writing requires him to switch these filiations —
in midstream, as it were — from personal to political codes. The result is a
strangely alienating, almost discontinuous form of literature. It has an
unfamiliar subtext and seems to stand in isolation from the development
of Chinese literary history, divorced from its literary past, despite the faa
that Hao Ran always strives to **make the past serve the present.'' His use
of traditional literary structures only underscores the radical departure
that his texts have taken in their mode of discourse.

Hao Ran's novels provide an interesting example of literature in tran-
siti(Mi. The difference between Bright Sunny Skies and The RoLici of
Golden Light can be defined in literary as well as political terms. Just as
the plot moves from class struggle in one novel to line struggle in the
other, the textual filiations and affiliations go from the relatively) human-
istic, universal, and traditional in Ihi^ffH Sunny Skies to the didactic and
political in The Rotui of Cioldcu I.ii^ht. There are extremelv few literary
allusions in the latter work, but there are a multitude ot political allu-
sions. Didactic and mimetic functions have been merged to such an ex-
tent that the subtext of the novel is predominantly political in nature,
and the reader's intertextual response is most often activated by political
texts and political codes, rather than by literary or esthetic ones. If the
text provides one element of a relation, thus requiring the reader to
supply the remaining portion on his own, that reader requires a political
rather than a literary education.

Although the struggles in Bright Sunny Skies work themselves out on an
individual basis and are quite accessible to the reader, there is at least one
important intertextual link that assumes political knowledge: the problem
of how to allocate the fruits of labor. A reader need not, however, be
aware of Party controversies in order to appreciate the novel in a number
of ways. The work has a rich intertext that functions esthetically as well as
politically.

Quoting Harold Bloom in regard to Hao Ran is instructive. What hap-
pens when

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THE SUBThX i Oh HAO RAN'S HC l ION

239

one tries to w rite or to teach or to think or t vcn to read w ithoiit the sense ot
tradition? Wliy, nothing happens at all, just nothing. You cannot write or
teach or think or even read without imitation, and what you imitate is what
another person has done, that person*s writing or teaching or diinking or
reading. Your relation to what informs that person is tradition.^*

Strong hints of where Hao Ran stands in the literary tradition can be
found in Bright Sunfty Skies, but in The Road of Golden Light textual
filiations arc almost entirely political.

This IS not necessarily to say that they are ineffective. The overtly politi-
cal nature of daily life in China creates for the Chinese reader a political,
instead of a literary, tradition that would be aetivated by the novel. For
instance, we can presume that the Chinese audience would be familiar
with the background of The Road of Golden Light: the rural situation in
1953, immediately after the first land reform, was unsatisfactory. Al-
though the peasants were free from debt and had been given their own
land, the smallness of the farm units and the fragmentation of plots made
for very inefficient agriculture and hindered the adoption of modem tech-
nology. Further: ''No sooner had land-reform been completed than there
reappeared the traditional praaice of usury; better off and more economi-
cally efficient peasants began to lend money to poorer and less efficient
ones, and in some cases the debtors were forced to sell their lands to their
creditors."*^

When seeking the subtext behind a villain like Feng Shaohuai, it is
perhaps more fruitful to look to modem political history than to tradi-
tional literature.

The organization of mutual-aid teams, the progression of lower coop-
eratives to higher cooperatives, and the Party's sensitivity to ''peasant
individualism are all part of the political tradition, and knowledge of that
political tradition is necessary for any sort of reader response to The Road
of Golden Light.'*^ Maurice Meisner's history of collectivization from
1953 to 1957 reads almost like a plot outline of The Road of Golden
Light. Meisner quotes Mao:

Many poor peasants, due to their lack of means of production, still remain
in poverty, some of them having contracted debts; others are selling their
land or renting out their land. ... If this situation is allowed to develop
further, there will come increasingly more serious [class] polarization in the
rural areas. "''^

^' Harold Bloom, A Map of Misreading (New York: Oxford University Press, 1975), p.

32.

^ Maurice Meisner, Mao's China: A History of the People's Republic (New York: Free
Press, 1977), p. 141.
*^ Ibid., chap. 10.
^ Ibid., p. 143.

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MICHAtL EGAN

The rise of a kulak class, the "inclination of the Party's own rural cadre
to succumb to petty bourgeois "peasant ideology',""'"' are all themes of The
Road of Golden Light; for instance, the bad ^ adtc /.hang jinfa is petty-
bourgeios peasant ideology personihcd. Many peasants refused to join
mutual-aid teams, preferring to try their luck in the "private sector'* —
hence Gao Erlin. Many peasants tried to avoid the entire process; in The
Road of Golden Light, the reader is given the sham mutual-aid team of
Feng Shaohuai, and the barrenness of his and Zhang's approach is symbol*
ized by the series of dry wells they dig, hoping to show up Gao Daquan*s
correct policy. There is no reason to doubt Hao Ran when he writes, as he
did of Bright Sunny Skies:

When I wrote this book, 1 hoped to be able to write about the customs, lives

and reality of the people. While 1 wanted to be able to convey the vision of
workers, peasants and soldiers, I especially wanted to put the novel in the
hands ot the peasants. . . . But I didn't write well. ... I wrote a rirst draft
and returned to the peasants for [criticism and correction].'**

Hao Ran has made many such statements, but in The Road of Golden
Light, at least, he relied more on historical sources than on peasant infor-
mants for the foundation of his work.

The major trend in the development of Hao Ran's fiction from Bright
Sunny Skies to The Road of Golden Light — the increasing ascendance of
the political rather than the literary subtext — continues in Sons and
Daughters of Xisha, which seems to have almost no subtext at all. Again,
character and characterization provide a key to Hao Ran's work. Even in
The Road of Golden Light, some negative characters had good traits as
well as bad. Zhang jinfa, Wang Youqing, and Gu Xinniin all have a
positive side to their natures, for all that they are evil persons.' In Sons
and Daughters of Xisha, no such ambiguities exist. Volume 1 of the novel
tells the talc of the people's struggle against Japanese aggression in the
South China Sea. The Xisha fishermen are heroic under the leadership of
the Chinese Communist Party, and their adversaries — the traitors, despots,
and Japanese invaders — are totally evil. The two proletarian revolutionar-
ies, Zheng Liang and Crandpa Wei, arc never less than perfect. Volume 1
also presents the childhood history of A Bao, heroine of Volume 2.

Volume 2 has two parts. The first records how, in 1959, the Saigon
government attacked five Chinese fishing boats, drove them ashore, and
captured over eighty fishermen. They are imprisoned and mistreated but
finally released due to Chinese pressure. Other Saigon attacks on the Xisha

*^ Ibid., p. 145.

\ \.io R.in, "Ping changpian xiaoshuo Yanyang ttan" [On the novel Bright Sunny Skies],
Ciungtuing ribao, 23 Odobo- 1965.
Joe Huang, "Hao Ran," p. 390.

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I Hh SUB l tX i Oh HAO RAN S F1CHON

24i

islands also provide baclvgroiind. The actual setting of the novel is the
Xiangyang Commune on one of the islands.

Fifteen years pass. In the second part of Volume 2, Xisha has changed
and modernized, bur there is still confrontation between the lishermen and
the Saigon troops. With the growth of socialism, contradictions between
positive characters decrease; they are never as serious as in Volume 1 and
are more easily solved. The emphasis is on depicting the modernization
and economic progress of Xisha and the fightmg spirit and patriotism of
the fishermen. The climax of the novel is a great battle scene in two parts.
A Bao is victorious in the land battle, and Fu Hailong (commander of a
PLA warship and A Bao's husband) conquers at sea.

Conflict in .Sons and Daughters of Xisha is almost impersonal. Char-
acters have so little motivation that they make the people in The Road of
Golden Light seem models of complexity; compared to Xisha, Bright
Sunny Skies is a rich text indeed. In the three novels the reader can see
Hao Ran's increasing adherence to a formulaic mode of writing imposed
by Party policy. The doctrine of the *'three prominences** promulgated by
Jiang Qing holds complete sway over Sons and Daughters of Xisha. All
characters, including villains, give prominence to positive characters, who
yield in turn to heroic characters. Heroic characters bow in turn to the
main hero. Jiang Qing started developing this scheme for reformed Peking
opera in 1964; by the 1970s her theory had a stranglehold on the novel as
well as the stage.^^

Sons and Daughters is a perfect example of the three prominences the-
or\ in action. Conflict and contradictions serve as challenges for heroes
and heroic characters to respond to. Each victory is a synthesis that re-
solves the relevant ideological contradiction. The plot is used only to ad-
vance characterization by showing how heroic thought and action can
overcome any obstacle. The heroine's attempt to resolve contradictions
earns her sufHcient prominence that her character and ideology are al-
lowed to emerge.

A Bao is, of course, the heroine of the novel. She is at the pinnacle of a
pyramid, restmg on heroic secondary characters like He Wangli and Zheng
Taiping. They also support Party policy, socialism, and the development of
Xisha, but occasionally they may waver slightly or be caught in a minor
contradiction. Such occasions serve merely to thrust A Bao forward, and
she solves the problem with a glib slogan like "We must rely on our own
strength" {zili gofjgshoig) or "We must show some backbone" {ying
gutou). The base of the pyramid is formed by the class enemies One-Eyed
Crab (Duyan Xie) and Big Pumpkin (Da Nangua). One-Eyed Crab used to
own the fishing fleet and to exploit the fishermen; Big Pumpkin is the

iieverley Lum, "A Report on the Principle of 'the I hrec Prominences' " (unpublished
manuscript), pp. 1—5.

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MICHAEL tOAN

leader ot the Saigon troops. There are other heroes too. Fu Hailong and
Zheng Liang, A Bao's father, fall between her and the secondary char-
acters, and help taper tiic pyramid to its summit.

Heroes who are paragons are very familiar by now, so we are not
surprised to learn that A Bao has been **tenipered by bloody and fierce
revolutionary struggle."^' Never before, though, have villains been so
completely stereotyped. One-Eyed Crab is an imreconstructed traitor, a
renegade without scruples. He has refused to change, despite the many
opportunities offered by the People's Government. He keeps his backward
mentality and longs for the good old days, which were joyful because he
could do bad things whenever he wanted to. He is only waiting to strike a
blow against the revolution and restore feudal conditions; he squirms "like
an ant in a hot pan.'*^*'

A Bao instantly recognizes him as a class enemy; in Sons and Daughters
of Xisha, dass enemies do not go undetected for hundreds of pages, as
they do in Bright Sunny Skies, or have the opportunity to put their bad
policies into action, as in The Road of Golden Light. There is instant
recognition; the battle lines are clear from the very start.

A Bao, as the main heroine, is ideally beautiful, just as the bad char-
acters are deformed. She is a flat, static character who is presented as
perfect and who remains perfect. She cannot be fooled for n nuTinte, so she
never has to learn anything, unlike Gao Daquan in The Road of Golden
Light. She represents the Party and is a model for the masses. When she is
forced to talk to "bad eggs" she speaks with contempt (in the work no
effort is made to convert such people); when she talks to pcasaius, she tries
to educate them. The plot of Xisha, in keeping with the three prommences,
is breathtaking in its simplicity. It develops two main contradictions that
are resolved m such a way as to make A Bao's heroism even more promi-
nent. Xisha is a model of dialectical oversimplification — thesis: A Bao is
presented as a heroic model; antithesis: the evil One-Hyed Crab contacts
the troops of the Saigon government; synthesis: A Bao discovers and de-
stroys him. Then the whole process is repeated over again; the second
climax is the Chinese islanders' victory over the invading Vietnamese.

The leader of the Saigon troops, Big Pumpkin, is if possible even more
one-dimensional than One-Eyed Crab. He drinks, swears, and smokes
opium, and his room is filled with pictures of naked women (as opposed to
the villain's Buddhist icons in Bright Sunny Skies), He is such an exact
opposite of A Bao that the novel has no suspense whatsoever. It is a
straightforward morality play — good versus evil — and the result is a fore-
gone conclusion. There are not even any Party lines for political scientists

^ Hao Ran, Xisha ermi (Peking: Renmin wenxue, 1974), p. 5.
" Ibid., pp. 9-10.

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243

lo trace. The multidirectional subtext of Bright Sunny Skies became otie-
directional in I he Road of Golden Light; in Sons and Daughters of Xisha,
Hao Ran seems to have written a novel with no Hliations at all. C'hairman
Mao is quoted ("Villains will neither change nor die voluntarily"),'' and
readers will recognize the format of u uxia xiaoshuo (swordsman novels).
Everyone remembers that the Chinese and South Vietnamese were on op-
posite sides in the Vietnam War. Otherwise, Xisha seems almost bereft of
filiations. The result is a flat novel in comic-book style that elicits very
little in the way of reader response. Moreover, the response it does elicit
may not be the one Hao Ran desired: Sons and Daughters of Xisha reads
very successfully as camp or pop art.

Hao Ran's three novels are written in three distinct styles. One has real
roots in China's literary and cultural past as well as in the political pres-
ent; one has political rather than literary or esthetic allusions; and one is
so unremittingly political that it reduces the idea of socialist literature (or
even of "revolutionary romanticism") to caricature. It is unlikely that this
sequence refleas Hao Ran*s normal development as an artist; almost cer-
tainly, it is the result of a political line imposed from above by cultural
bureaucrats (Hao Ran himself is, or was, something of a cultural bureau-
crat). Such radical changes in literature and its presuppositions must pre-
sent difficulties to any audience, even to one familiar with day-to-day
political undercurrents. His growth as an artist may often lead an author
to challenge his readers by writing in a radical new style, so that he risks
losing them in order to lead them to a new epiphany. Hao Ran seems to
have done just the opposite; he changed his style in order to decrease the
possibilities of his fiction. It will be interesting to see which of Hao Ran's
works will survive the tests of time and rereading.

^' Ibid., p. 103.

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ELEVEN

Contemporary Chinese Poetry
and Its Search
for an Ideal Form

Kai-yu Hsu

Chinese poets since 1*-M'^ have ahnost constantly been engaged in contro-
versies over the shapes new poetry should assume and how the new forms
should he mteurated with new content.' Two factors can account for this
preoccupation. I irsi, poetry as a genre focuses the writer's attention on
verse forms because as a lyrical, iniagistic medium, poetry requires a
greater economy and therefore a more careful deplovment of words than
die detailed, discursive novel. Second, the recent, rather dramatic move in
twentieth-century Chinese poetry from classical Chinese with its con-
densed syntax to the modern vernacular has created a need for freer pro-
sodic schemes: a new diction requires new forms. In the following section I
review several typical contributions to the discussions about poetic form.
Most of these discussions, it will become apparent, finally brought forth
the truth that poetic form could not be isolated from the other aspects of
poetry — ^its language, imagery, feeling, and thought — and many disputants
concluded that the traditional dichotomy betweeen form and content was
an abstract construct that ignored the essential unity of a poem.

THE RECURRING DEBATES

Preoccupation with form goes back to the 1950s, when a wave of
arguments echoed the earlier intense debate between poets of the Crescent

At the r n if the aurhrr"^ tragic death, revisions for the publication of this paper had not
yet been made. With the kind permission of the author's widow and folldwinij the wishes of
the author in earher correspondence, 1 have revised the paper m line with usual editorial
practice. — BMcD

' Bonnie S. McDougall, "Poems, Poets, and Poetry 1976: An Exercise in the Typology of
Modern Chinese Literature," Contemporary China 2, 4 (Winter 1978: 76-124) offers some
insights into the role of the poet vis-ji>vis writers of other genres.

244

uopynghiea inaiuiial

CONTtMi'ORARY CHlNtSt I'Ot I RY

245

School and left-wing writers in the late I92()s and early 19^()s, The back-
ground to the 195()s debate was a new emphasis, tollowing the 1942
directive in Mao Zedong's "Talks at the Yan'an Forum on Literature and
Art," on Chuiese folksong as a source of formal inspiration for the poets
of the new society. The debate was complicated by the then-current prac-
tice of writmg a rather shapeless kmd of verse loosely referred to as "free
verse". It began with He Qifang's 1954 essays on contemporary formalist
poetry, published in Zhongguo qingman [Chinese youth], in which he
called for further experimentation with definite prosodic schemes and
regular stanza forms. If the poets of modem China did not cultivate such
modem forms, he maintained, the rich music that gave classical Chinese
poetry its characteristic beauty would be lost. This was the same argument
Wen Yiduo had advanced in 1926, and it was supported by other noted
poets and writers from the 1930s such as Bian ZhiUn, Zhu Guangqian and
Wang Li.^ Despite their polemic, however, free verse had continued to be
the most often-used mode.

In the 1960s Quo Moruo addressed the same issue, calling tor a concen-
trated effort to ''complete the literary revolution started at May Fourth by
going further in giving poetry a national and popular character."^ Guo
urged the new poets to use new forms develoi>ed since the time of the May
Fourth movement. These were principally Western free verse as cham-
pioned by Whitman, ''liberated quatrains'* where the traditional five or
seven syllable Une could be plumped out with unaccented syllables and the
whole line arranged in a sense-grouped metrical pattern; and, less fre-
quently, imitations of short stanza forms such as those favored by the
Victorians Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Thomas Hardy. One of the pioneers
of free verse in China, Guo Momo continued to support it as a suitable
vehicle for new poetry.

The problem of poetic form began to appear in print again soon after
the end of the Cultural Revolution. Thus in 1977, the leading critic Feng

^ He (^fuig, "Guanyu xiandai geliishi" [On mode rn rcgulaticd poctr>i, Zhongguo (fittg-
nian [Chinese youth] 10 (1954): 14-19. Sec also He's toilow-iip articles, "(innnvii shigc
xingshi wcntidf zhcnglun" [The debate on the question of tonn m poctryj, \^ enxue pingluri
[Literary Review] 1 (February 1959): 1-22; and *'Zai tan shigc xingshi wend" [More on the
question o( form in poetry], ibid. 2 (April 1959): 55-75. See also Feng Zhi, **Guanyu
xinshide xingshi wenti" [On the question of form in new poetry), ibid. I (February 1959):
Bian Zhilin, "Tan shigede gelii wenti" |On the question of regulated forms in
poetry], ibid. 2 (April 1959): 79-83; and Wang Li, "Zhongguo geliishide chuantong he
xiandai gelushide wenti" [The traditioii of regulated poetry in China and the questicm of
contemporary regulated poetry], ibid. 3 (June 1959): 1-12.

^ Guo Monio, "Giuttiyu shigede minsuhua qunzhonghua wenti" [On die question of

giving poetr\' a national character and a mass character), Shikiin | Poetry journal) 7 (July
1963): 60-62. iranslated in Kai-yu Hsu, The Chinese Literary Scene (New York: Vintage,
1975), pp. 32-35.

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KAl-YU HSU

Mu in an obituary article on Guo Xiaochuan commented that Guo's most
lasting contribution to contemporary Chinese poetry was his explorations
in new poetic forms in the 195()s and 1960s."*

In January 1978, a hitherto unpublished letter by Mao Zedong to Chen
Yi, written in 1965, was given extensive publicity in the Chinese press.
Mao spoke ot his dissatisfaction with the lack of progress in new poetry
since the May Fourth movement and called for poets to develop new forms
based on classical Chinese poetry and folksong. Mao's advice to modem
poets was that poetry should be compact, in a neat and attractive form,
and rhymed.

Zang Kejia, the stalwart of modem Chinese poetry who had returned to
public life in 1975, reminded his audience of Mao*s advice when he spoke
before the third session of the Third Congress of the Federation of Writers
and Artists in May 1978.^ Zang declared that every word and line of
poetry should be hammered and chiseled until it was perfea. He cautioned
against inspirational free-flow and upheld the value of well-wrought short
lyrics over loosely structured, lengthy verses. In a striking reversal of his
opposition in the 1930s and 1940s to Crescent-style esthetidsm, he even
cited Wen Yiduo's theory of 1926 that the three beauties of a poem were
the musical, the pictorial, and the ardiitectural/

Toward the end of 1978 a campaign was launched to support more
open poetry forums. It was part of a wider movement to encourage more
variety in the arts, and official support for this movement was indicated in
convincing fashion by the publication in February 1979 of a speech made
by Zhou Fnlai to music workers in 1961. 1961 was a year of renewed
experiment and achievement in many areas of Chinese society. Zhou Enlai
was the hero of the nation's intellectuals and artists, so the pubh'cation of
this speech was a significant event in the outburst of literary creativity that
took place from the winter of 1978 to the spring of 1979. While the
unofficial literature of this period attracted most Western interest, the
official literarv world was also to some extent revitalized.

In what was billed as the most important conterence on poetry in thirty
years, over one hundred writers and critics gathered in Peking from Janu-
ary 14 to 20, 1979, to review the state of the art and to assess its most

* Feng Mil. "BudiKin ^omingdi- zhan'ge he songge" [Unceasing revolutionary bacde songs
and eulogies), ShiLvi 10 (October 1977): 80-89.

^ Zang Kejia, **Zai min'ge, gudian shige jiqushang fazhan xinshi" [Develop new poetry on
llie basis of folk song and dassical poetry], S^Vbm 7 (July 1978): 80-84.

Wen Yiduo's letter to Zang Kejia, dated 25 November 1943, in Wen Yiduo quanji

IComplcte works of Wen Yidiioj (Shanghai: Kaiming. 1948), Cettgji jSccfion C,\, pp.
and Zang Kejia, "Wen Yiduode shi" (Wen Yiduo's poetry), Renmm wenxiw [People's litera-
ture] 7 {July 1956): 119-125. For Wen's own theory, see his Quanji (Complete works),
Dingji [Section D], pp. 245-254.

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CONTEMPORARY CHINESE POEl RY

247

pressing needs. The event, sponsored by Shikau [Poetry journal) under its
chief editor Yan Chen and associate editors Zou Difan and Ke Yan, fea-
tured a galaxy of well-known poets. Included were Feng Zhi (who began
writing in the 1920s); Zang Kejia (the 193()s); Ai Qing, He jingzhi, and Li
Ji (from the 1940s); Li Ying, Liang Shangquan, and Zhang Zhimin (the
1950s); and Nmg Yu, Xu Gang and others of the 1960s and later. Two
specific conclusions about form and content emerged from the conference:
(1) The overall goal of the poet must be to help advance the four modern-
izations (of agriculture, industry, defense, and science and technology).
Whatever the form the poet chooses, every poem should be, in effea, a
heroic marching song toward this national goal. (2) Within this frame-
work, all kinds of subject matter and poetic forms must be allowed to
compete freely for the people's approval. ''It is permissible for the poet or
the reader to prefer certain forms, but intolerable for the authorities to
exclude any forms,** the conference report solemnly declared. It went on to
praise a large selection of poems written during the first half of the twenti-
eth century for their attempts to liberate the content and form of poetry at
the same time, not just to invent new forms.

The conferees agreed tacitly that poetic form could not be dealt with
separately from feeling, subject matter, and thought. ''As poets emphasize
the thought content of their work, they must at the same time pay serious
attention to artistic techniques so that their creation will not be only
momentarily popular but read and remembered forever as gemlike po-
etry." The report criticized most of the new poetry as too plain, "not easily
differentiated from prose,** and pleaded for poets to distill the poetic qual-
ity from ordinary language because "poetry, after all, is poetry, and revo-
lutionary poetry is not just a compilation of revolutionary slogans."^

THE UNDERLYING ISSUES

Several issues underlie the periodically revived discussions over poetic
form: can or should the classical poetic diction be completely eliminated?
Which kind of poetry is most needed, the purely lyrical verse that stresses
intensity of feeling or the dramatic narr uivt- that may ho able to compete
with the novel and the stage in reeountmg revolutionary experiences?
Should poets actively pursue freely invented verse forms, or should they
make the best use of the familiar quatrains — the mamstay of both classical
Tang verse and of the ageless Chinese folksong?

First, in their search for an appropriate poetic language for the twenti-
eth century, many poets hrsl turned away trom the classical poetic diction

Benkan ji/he [Our own reporter). "Yao vvei 'Sihua' tangsheng gechang" [Raise our
voices to sing of the "Four Modernizations"], Shikan 3 (March 1979): 4-15.
' Ibid., pp. 12-13.

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KAl-YU HSU

inherited trom pre-May-Fourth days and then also rejected the westernized
vocabulary and syntax used experimentally by the poets of the 1920s and
1930s. They charged that the former was too archaic and esoteric, while
the latter smacked ot a liuropcamzcd bourgeois taste — both alien to the
proletariat, which is taken to generally include peasants, workers, and
soldiers. In 1964 the poem "Raodao" [Detour] appeared, which described
in a stjrle reminiscent of the love poems of the 1930$ a rendezvous between
two lovers. It was roundly denounced; criticism in the press raged for
months.' The main objection was to its language and imagery; and a
folksong was suggested as the correa model:

My lover digs a furrow and I plant the sprouts,
A new coat of green covers the entire mountainside.
My lover hauls manure and I load it in the cart.
With my whole heart I follow him wherever he goes.
The sun sets now and birds return to thdr nests.
Soon the day will be done and people will go home,
m forge a diain and 1*11 forge a lock.
And I'll lock up the sun to keep my lover around.

But there has been no lack of defenders of China's classical pt)ciic
diction, one of whom was none other than Mao Zedong himself. In his
letter of 1965 to Chen Yi, Mao suggested that the poet think through
images, an idea advanced by Liu Xie as far back as the sixth century in his
Wenxm dtaolong [The literary mind and the carving of dragons] and also
by Zhou Enlai in his speech of 1961. Mao pointed out that poetry, unlike
prose, relies upon metaphor, simile, and allusion and only rarely upon
narrative descriptions of factual events. This is where, asserted Mao, the
Tang poets succeeded and their followers in the Song dynasty failed.
Mao*s objection to Song lyrics, many of which used prosaic vernacular
elements, and his praise of Li He imply his rejection of the use of plain
language in poetry. But Mao advised Chen Yi and every other aspiring
poet to avoid archaic allusions. His advice revived an argument over
whether or not to use the well-poUshed epithets and well-wrought images
inherited from traditional elite poetry. What appears a well-poUshed epi-
thet to an erudite reader may very well seem an archaic allusion to another
reader, went the argument.

The reverse of the question, whether plain talk should be admitted into
poetry, has been debated as far back as the Song dynasty, when poets
began to incorporate some colloquialisms into their works. One of the
more recent debates on this issue took place between Lin Shu (1852-

' Hsu, Chinese Literary Scene, pp. .^5— 42.
Liu Xie, ihe Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons, trans. Vincent Yu-chung Shih
(New York: Columbia University Press, 1959), pp. 195-198.

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CONTEMPORARY LHiNtbh POKI RY

249

1924), the pioneer translator of Western riciion, and Cai Yuanpei (1868-
1940), the enlightened educator." Lin had insisted that one must he a
good student of traditional Chinese literature hefore one could write good
haihui2 ("vernacular") literature, while Cai had strongly disagreed. In prac-
tice, however, traditional epithets and the current proletarian vernacular
have been juxtaposed many times since 1949; the older poets, such as
Zang Kejia, tend to incorporate more traditional expressions in their
works, and the younger ones, such as Li Ying, fewer. There have also been
extreme examples of each approach.

The second issue in discussions on poetic form was whether to strive for
the lyrical in the short, highly condensed, and well-wrought verse that
makes the classical Chinese poetry beautiful or to capture the drama of
modem China in full-blown epics. The report on the January 1979 poetry
conference in Peking urges poets to strive for the most sincere expressions
of feeling and for the most honest accounts of fact, which is in effect an
invitation to both short lyrical and long narrative poems. While it should
be no problem for new poetry to aca>modate both types of works, China's
new poets are often found debating among themselves the direction to
pursue. Representative of the new worker-poets, Li Xueao has moved
from the shorter lyrics of his Taihang luhuo [The fire in a forge in the
Taihang Mountains, 1965] to long, narrative poems in his Yingxiong song
[Odes to heroes, 1973]. A good number of the more promising newcomers
in poetry in the 1970s also started with long poems.'' The needs of the
time and most writers' views of the function of poetry indeed put certain
pressures on the poets. Even as early as the 1920s, Wen Yiduo discussed
the problem and opted for the shorter lyrical poems. By 1943, however, he
had decided that the longer narrative poems were ideally suited for the
time. In the interval, he had stopped writing poetry himselt. Bian Zhilm,
one ot the finest lyrical poets of the 193()s, followed a similar path, and he,
too, stopped writing. Was Wen Yiduo being prophetic when he said, in the
early 1940s, that Chinese poetry had run its course and from there on it
must become closer to the novel and drama? The same concern continues
to motivate the new poets today.

Third, the question of which stanza forms Ate most suit.ihlc for the new
Chinese poetry was complicated by questions oi national and cultural iden-
tity. In the May Fourth era, the new poets agreed that they must retlect the
spirit of the time and make use of local color. Later their advocacy was

" Shi Jun, ed., Zhtrnggjuo faidai siadOHg^ cankao ziUao jianbian (Short edition of refer-
ence materials on die intellectual history' of modern China) (Peking, 1957), pp. 1009-1020.

Fcni: Jingx nan, "Gangsisheng yao" (Cable SongI, in Shikan 1 i {.inuary 19~6i: 60-61, is
a good example. Translated by Bonnie S. .McDoiigall in Kai-yu Hsu, ed., Ihc Literature of
the People's Republic uf China (Bloomington: Indiana University Press: 1980), pp. 923-925.

Wen, Quanfi, Jiaji [Section A], p. 205; and Jiji [Section F], p. 30.

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KAl-YU HSU

translated into two issues: how to make poetry popular (belonging to the
common folk) and how to retain a national character in poetry. Torn
between innovation and adherence to tradition, even Ciuo Moruo, in state-
ments made in 1963, wavered between urging new poets to seek new
forms and urging them to adopt the time-tested pentasyllabic and heptasyl-
labic quatrains common to most of the authentic Chinese folksongs.

THE RECORD OF PERFORMANCE

All the arguments about the most appropriate form for new Chinese
poetry notwithstanding, the poets of the People's Republic have estab-
lished a record of performance that demonstrates an admirable ingenuity
with a large variety of schemes. These can be grouped as follows:

Free Verse

The free verse of short irregular lines, a la Mayakovsky, eclipsed other
new poetic forms on the eve of Liberation. Tian Jian experimented with
it in the 1940s in his "Renminde wu** [People's dance] and "Ta ye yao sha
ren" [She, too, wants to kill].'^ However, the form's popularity has fallen
off since Liberation. Perhaps the nervous drumbeat rhythm lost its appeal
once the all-out war for national survival was over. £ven Tian Jian has
turned away from it toward narrative poems with a more measured ca-
dence, such as his " Tie daren" [Big iron man]."" But Mayakovsky's style
has certainly not disappeared completely.' Zhang Zhimin, author of .S7-
btizhao [Can't kill himj and of other well-received anthologies in the
1940s and 1950s, published a poem of 483 lines entitled "Anzhao ren-
minde minglmg*' [By the people's order j. it reads in part:

You, my comrade readers!

Please stay calm, stay calm!
Written under my pen
Is not a poem
But a historical expose —
A suit tiled by the people!
Forgive me, a citizen
— of New China
Feeling —
Ashamed, hurt!
Because it happened

Wen, Quanji, Xinji ISection H), pp. 574-585.
'* Tian Jian, Ta ye yao sha ren [She, too, wants to kill) (Shanghai: Xiwang she, 1^47).
"Tian Jian, "Tie daren" iron man], Shtkan 7 (July 1^64): 4-7.

Translations of Mayakovsky's poems appeared again in Shikan 11 (November 1978):
74-81.

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CONTHMPORARY CHINtSt FOE 1 RY

251

— in my niDthcrland,
On the bank of the \ angtsc
—of the twentieth century,
In the stone-walled dty
—of nineteen seventy-six."

The poem concerns a victim of the Ciang of Four's tyranny who was
imprisoned because he had dared to mourn the death of the late premier,
Zhou Rnlai. The cnjambment accentuates the stressed words and suggests
a voice choked by emotion. 1 he C^hinese language lacks the conjugations
and declensions that the Russian Mayakovsky exploited to achieve dra-
matic turns of phrase in poems such as his famous short work on Lenin*s
death. But Zhang Zhimin has manipulated the breaks in his lines to good
effect and has partially made up for his linguistic disadvantage by placing
his rhymes only at the end of strategic lines. In the original Chinese for the
passage above, ''calm," ''citizen,'* and ''city** (which in Chinese is the final
word of the stanza) carry the rhyme.

He Jingzhi*s "ZhongHu dlzhu** [The rock in mid-torrent] uses the same
form. The poem was inspired by the sight of a monolith standing dramati-
cally in the midst of the turbulent Yellow River at the Three-Gate Gorge
between Shanxi and Shaanxi provinces. He delivers a moving tribute to the
strength, endurance, and unconquerable spirit of this rock:

Oh, not to rememher the past

1 come to the Gorge ot Three Ciatts

Straddling over where King \ u jumped his horse
See, yellow water rolling, rolling

Hear, excavator thud-thud.
Makes my

Eyes full
of hot tears swelling

Body full

of blood boiling, a thousand degrees?^**

The first poem Ai Qing published after the Cultural Revolution, "Hong
qi*' [The red flag], also comes close to this form:

Red hre,

Red blood.

Red the wild lilies.

Red the azalea blooms, a red flood,

Shikjn 12 (DfCL-mber 1978): 74-81.

v. \'. M.ivakovsky, Poctn' Moscow: KhiKlo/hcstvcnaya l.iter;Uiir;i, 1964), p. 1 I.
"** He jingzhi, I iingiic ;/ |Siiigiiig aloiiiJ| Peking: Renmm wcnxiie chubanshe, pp. 22-24.
Translated by Wai-lim "l ip in Hsu, Ihc Literature of the People's Republic of China, pp.
361-363.

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KAl-YU HSU

Red the pomegranate in May,
Red is the sun at the birth of day.
But most beautiful of them all,

the red flags on forward march!'*

In this cighty-one-linc poem of eleven stanzas, Ai Qing uses many of the
poetic devices that had made him famous in the 1940s. There is the calcu-
lated redundancy of "red" in the first stanza, "fire" in the sixth and
seventh stanzas, and "forward, attack!" in the ninth stanza. The exclama-
tion marks make the lines sound like commands. There is the familiar
parallelism:

Seeing it, the exploiting class

Becomes scared, and they tremble all over;

Becomes enraged, and they grind their teeth.

bccing It, the prolciarjan class
Becomes elated, and they jump for joy.

The end-of-line rhyme on the word "qi" in "hong qi," which recurs
again and again in the poem, underscores the theme of the opcnmg stanza
as well as concluding the poem by appearing m the verv Kist line of the
final stanza. 1 his rhyming device sustains the one end-rlnnie throughout
the work, in spite of the interruptions of other rbymmg words m between,
so that the key rhyme functions like a refrain to uphold the thematic
image.

The Lofig So fig

hangge, or long song (literally, a boldly-sung song), is further develop-
ment of the free verse discussed above, it basically follows the free verse
style, except that it tends to have longer lines. The long-song style has been
gaining in popularity because it enables the poet to be both lyrical and
dramatic; it accommodates flights of imagination as well as relatively de-
tailed development of character and plot. Thus, it combines the advantages
of free verse and of the new ci-fu style to be discussed later.

Ai Qing*s *'Gangdu zan" [Ode to the steel capital] illustrates the versa-
tility of this form. In this seventy-four-line poem, Ai Qing describes how
he came to the steel capital of China at Anshan after visiting the Daqing
petroleum center. He rhapsodizes about the beauty of the furnaces, the
brilliance of molten steel, and the symphony of such a gigantic plant all
ablaze, alive, and astir. Again there is much parallelism and repetition for
rhythmic effect as well as for emphasis:

" Weahui bao (Shanghai daily), 30 April 1978. Translated by Kai-yu Hsu, in Hsu, The
Literature of the People's Repubtic of China, pp. 917-918.

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253

The wind of stcL-K the rain of steel
The thunder ot steel and the electricity ot steel.
What suddenly strikes
Is the compfessed air blowing into the revolving furnace,
producing a geyser of steel all rose in color;
And the blossoms of steel, peerless in their brilliance.

Describe the fireworks over Peking on the eve of a festival . . .

Here, people s will is stronger than steel
Here, light shines from people's ideal
Here, no room for hesitation or wavering
Here, motherland's heart is throbbing,^

Ruan Zhangjing expanded this form into a two-thotisand-linc long
poem, "Baiyun Ebo jiaoxiang shi" [White Cloud Eho Symphony, com-
pleted in 1963], which depicts the transformation of a barren, rocky knoll
on the sourhcasrcrn edge of the Ciohi Desert ni inner Mongolia into a
productive commune.'' it recounts a romantic legend of an early hero who
gave his life to provide water from a fresh spring. Later, a more progres-
sive elder who wanted to develop this sacred site had to brave the anger of
his conservative fellow herdsmen, who felt that change would be a dese-
cration. It is a story poem, but its dramatic dialogues and lyrical passages
are effectively cast in the long-song style.

Folksong

Other song tc^rms inherited directly from Chinese folk tradition have
found favor with many poets. Li Ji and He Jingzhi had extensive exposure
to many of these forms during their years in the countryside (Li Ji, for
example, was for some years a professional folk-drama performer); the
two have done much to bring new themes and subject matter to village
theaters and street-comer recitals. Li Ji s famous '*Wang Gui yu Li Xiang-
xiang" [Wang Gui and Li Xiangxiang]^^ and He Jingzhi's **Hui Yan'an**
[Return to Yan*an]^ are new examples of the time-honored folksong form
known in North China as xintianyou, or **follow-heaven-roam.** The
name suggests that the singer follows what comes naturally to his mind
and mouth as he sings. In this form the basic stanza is a rhymed couplet.

^Shikan 11 (N'ovembcr 19-S;: 9-11.

Ruan Zhangiing, Biiiytoi Eho luoxian}^ shi (White eloiid Lbo symphonyl (Peking,
1964). I ranslated iii part by Kai-yu Hsu, The Literature of the People's Republic of China,
pp. 677-681.

^ Li Ji, ^an^ Gui yu Li Xiani^xiang [Wang Gui and Li Xiangxiang] (n.p.: Xinhua
shudian, 1949). Translated by Yang Hsien*yi and Gladys Yang (Peking: Foreign Languages

I'ress, 197H).

^ He Jingzhi, Laugge ji, pp. 1-5. Translated by Kai-yu Hsu in The Literature of the
People's Republic of China, pp. 363-365.

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The lines arc long and segmented hy sense-groups. A single rhyme may he
sustained throughout the song, or the rhyme may change as often as
desired. The xinticuiyou is basicalU a narrative form, and Li and He follow
this tradition. Aside from them, few contemporary poets have published
new works in such relatively strict forms. The moment the poet relaxes
somewhat from these strict folksong forms, he is turning to the new long
song described above. With a little more regularity in its rhythmic pattern
and rhyming, long song could very well serve as clapper-verse, to be sung
to the accompaniment of a pair of clappers and of a string of small
bamboo slabs.

By far the most popular form of new poetry written since 1949 has been
the folksong pattern that has a basic stanza of four pentasyllabic or hep-
tasyllabic lines. This form, which is seen all over the country, allows
enough 6ree variation within or between stanzas to suit any theme or any
singer. The rhyming is usually a a b a, a b a b, a a a a, or, rarely, a abb.
Most of the thousands of songs collected during the Great Leap Forward
campaign of 1958, the largest harvest of such folksongs in the history of
the People's Republic, are in this form.^'' Nearly one-half of all the works
anthologized since 1949 are written in this form, which is also used in
almost all song contests. A typical piece reads or chants like this a a b a
quatrain:

Feng shou shan ge | duo you duo.
Feng shou shan ge | yong ma tuo,
Qian ma dao le | Zunyi xian,
Hou ma hat zai j Erlang he.

Bumper crop songs, many and many.
Bumper crop songs, with horses carry.
Front horse has reached Zunyi county.
Rear horse sdll at Erlang River.^^

or, with the addition of a fifth line:

Yugong tie qiao \ wo shou neiy
Wo ba Taihang \ dang gu lei;
Kuai ma fia bum \ xue Dazhai,
Xiang gu hat xu | fia zhong chui.
Lei de Taiyang | fang guanghui.

Hong qi geyao [Songs of the red flag], compiled by (uio Moruo and Zhou Yang
(Peking: Monu qi zazhi she, 1*^59; presents the most representative ot these songs. Translated
by A. C. Barnes Ptkmg: Foreign Languages Press, 1961).

Hong c// gcyao, p. 209; Kai-yu Hsu, Twentieth Century Chineu Poetry (Ithaca: Cornell
University Press, 1970), p. 442.

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2SS

Foolish old man iron pick, seize in hand,
I take Mt. Tnihang, as drum to beat;
Fast horse add whipping, study Da/hai,
Loud drum still need, add heavy stick.
Beat Taihang so that issue light shine i^*^

*'Wode shan'ge shizai duo** [Many, many are my songs] is a typical folk-
song duet sung by a man and a woman:

Woman: Lou ti duo le | tuvi shang lou,
Shan ge duo le \ nan qi tou;
Na ge qi tou | chang yi shou
He ta yi nian | chang dao tou.

Stairs too many, hard go up,
Mountain song too many, hard begin;
Which one begin, sing one song.
With him one year, sing to end.

Man: Zhao zhao ri ri \ xiang chang ge.
Wo de shan ge | shi zai duo;
Jiu pa mei men \ bu hui chang,
Jiu pa mei men | bu gan huo.

Morning morning day day, want sing song,
My mountain song, really many;
Only fear sisters not know how sing,
Only fear sisters not do work.^*'

The Neiv Ci-fii Style
The form known as the new ci-fn style, which has been very effectively
cultivated by poets such as Guo Xiaochuan and i.i "t int:, has actually been
experimented with since May Fourth times. The traditional ci-fK style
called for basically hexasyllabic lines, interspersed with tetrasyllable lines
to break the monotony and to effect the changes in pace necessary in a
long poem. "1 he basic prosodic unit remained the quatrain, with a b a b
end rhymes, but occasionally there could be a heptasyllabic line and a
different end-rhyme pattern to provide variety. The new ci-fu style has a
varying number of quatrains in rather long, segmental lines. The pauses in
each line create the same rhythmic effect as the stressed syllables in the
traditional ci-fu poem. The Crescent poet Xu Zhimo used it to rhapsodize
about his little garden in *'Shihu hutong diqihao** [No. 7, Stone Tiger

" Shikan 1 (January 1^78): 27.
^ Shikan 2 {February 1964): 28.

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Lane],'" Wang Tong/hao used it for an ode to the wind that howls over
the Inner Mongohan desert,^' and even Zang Kejia found it suitable in
1934 for his lament on autumn. " All these poems owe much to one of the
traditional characteristics of ci-fu — a sweeping but well-cadcnced outpour
of feeling anchored on one object or one single impression around which
the poet builds a kaleidoscopic web of associated images.

Among the more recent successful uses of this form is Guo Xiaochu-
an*s ''Ke zat Beidahuangde tudishang'' [Carved on North Wasteland].^
The sixty-eight-line poem in seventeen quatrains starts with a sonorous
declaration:

Jicheng xiaquba, women houdaide zisun!

Zhe shi yibi yonghengde caichan — qianqiu wangu changxin;

Gefi^yun xioqitba, weilai shifiede zhuren!

Zhe shi ytpian shenqide tudi — renjian tianshang nanxun.

Inherit it, go on, our future children and children's children!

This is a perpetual endowment — a thousand autumns, ten thousand past years,

always new;
Till It, go on, future world's masters!

This is a sacred miraculous land— on earth, in heaven, hard to rind.

The perfectly symmetrical arrangement of the Unes tends to reinforce
the cadence, as repeatedly pushing a swing at exactly regular intervals
ampHHes its arc. The number of syllables and the syntactical structures in

lines 1 and 3 are identical, as are those of lines 2 and 4. The bisvllabic
expressions in the second halves of lines 2 and 4 contribute to the regular-
ity of the cadence, and the last rhyming word in this first stanza of the
poem carries a rising tone, which compels a lower voice in preparation tor
the next stanza. Over half of the stanzas end on a rising tone, including the
very last stanza of the poem; the effect is of a continumg, uiitintshed song.
Since the last stanza repeats the opening stanza, the feclmg is that the poet
has but chanted one cycle of a song that has endless cycles still to come.

Structurally, every stanza in this poem follows the same pattern. The
melody is ponderous but the rhythmic effect is very contagious:

This land once was an abandoned mother.

And the waters in the lake, her eyes gazing at the dosing dusk.

This land once was an innocent exile,

Cocking his cars, the empty valleys, to await the sound of every footstep.

Hsu, Tu entieth Cmtury Chinese Poetry, p. 85.
^' Ibid., p. 262.
" Ibid., p. 285.

Guo Xiaochuan, Ganzhelin qingshazhang (Sugarcane forest] (Peking, 1963), pp. 3-7.
Translated by Kai-yu Hsu in The Literature of the People's Republic of China, pp. 685-687.

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257

This is a magic land, one not easily found in heaven or on earth. The
thenialic stage, the vvastehtnd of North China, is seen in its past as a
forgotten mother or an exiled ciii/eii. It is thus ready to undergo its pres-
ent heroic and dramatic transformation when the revolutionaries come to
develop it, maknig the desert bloom and restormg the land to its deserved
glory.

Using freer rhyming schemes but keeping this general form, Li Ying has
written many noteworthy verses. His "Gaoshan shaosuo" (Lookout post
on mountaintop] carries on the fu tradition, although perhaps in minia-
ture, since it contains only forty lines. But it has all the trappings of fu,
with its extensive imagery built around a single object:

Since when

Did this immense sea suddenly cease rolling;

Severe, majesric, anJ craggy at their extreme

Arc the mountains, these frozen waves.

Lo! Look at them, eadi dirusting into die sky.

Black, dark brown, and through them, patches of steel gray.

Over there, on die steepest peak

Perdies in majesty an outpost of our warriors.^

Younger poets are follow ing this lead. ^ ii I.i's Hfty-tw o-line "Ke zai
Bancangshanshang" [CJarved on Bancang Mountain | is a worthy echo of
Guo Xiaochuan and Li Ying. Even the title parallels that of Guo's poem
quoted above.

On Bancang Mountain, the morning glow is like a commuter.
Rising with the sun, every day, reporting for diirv punctuallv.
Up the mountain it unfurls a skv full of hrighi clouds to decorate the orchards,
Down the mountain it pours countless shafts ot rays to dye the Dazhai Hags
red.

On Bancang, the morning glow stays close to us.

As we walk over that mountain trail, there stands the house where she once
stayed.

That tree, those flowers, will talk with you, intimately:
Comrades, can you see that flame leaping over there?'^^

The **she'* in the poem refers to Yang Kaihui, Mao Zedong's wife, whose
martyrdom became a legend particularly in the years following the
downfall of Jiang Qing. The poem is built around the image and story of a
woman in a way that provides a most rewarding contrast to Feng Zhi*s

'* Li Ying, Honghua manshan (Red flowers all over the mountain] (Peking, 1973), pp. 6-
8. Translated by Kai-yu Hsu in The Literature of the People's Republic of China, pp. 937-
938.

" Shikan 3 (Mardi 1977): 66-67.

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"Weiman" llhc drape]. Feng's pocni illustrates early May Fourth ro-
manticism: soft sentiment, personal devotion, love at first sight and love
eternal, fatalism, and so on. The work by Yu I.i cited above, however,
exemplifies contemporary rcvoluiKjnary romanticism, whose heroic, exag-
gerated commitment to a sociopohtical cause excludes the individual's
concern over his or her private affairs.

TradUional Forms: Shi, Ci, and Sanqu
Traditional forms of Chinese poetry are still very much in vogue among
certain groups of writers. The shi form, perfected during the Tang dynasty,
has been perpetuated in three major modes. The ancient style has a varying
number of tetrasyllabic, pentasyllabic, or, less often, heptasyllabic lines;
the rhyme usually falls on the even-numbered lines. The so-called modern
style — ^modern because it became popular in the seventh century — is fur-
ther divided into the jueju ("cut-short verse**), with quatrains of penusyl-
labic or heptasyllabic lines, and the liishi ("regulated verse**), with eight
pentasyllabic or heptasyllabic lines each having stria prosodic and rhetori-
cal requirements. The standard regulated verse, such as written by Du Fu,
presents two perfectly matched parallel couplets in the second and third
pair of lines. Most of the great Tang poems are in one or the other modern
shi form.

The ci form reached its zenith during the Song dynasty. Each ci (some-
times translated as "a lyric in irregular meter*"), is a song either adapted
from a popular tune or composed by the poet-musician. Once the tunes
became established, later poets had to write lyrics to them, deploying the
words (syllables) to fit the exact musical requirement of each line. Some
great masters of ci did alter the tunes to achieve new musical effects, and
their innovations have become established as variations on the theme. But
most writers just accomodate themselves to the existing tunes, of which
some 400 are still extant — though only as patterns, not m the form of
musical notation.

Chinese poets have been writing in 5/;/ or c / forms from the Tang-Song
era down to the present day. Most of the older contemporary poets, such
as Mao Zedong and Zhao Puchu, have never written verse m any other
form, while May Fourth poets such as Guo Moruo, Feng Zhi, and Rao
Mengkan, if they continued to write poems at ail, put their occasional
verses in these forms. Old revolutionary leaders, generals, and statesmen,
from the late foreign minister Chen Yi to General Zhang Aiping, have
been passing poems in these styles privately among their friends and from
time to time publishing a few of them. Some new writers have also tried
these forms, although most of their attempts, even when undertaken seri-

" Hsu, Twentieth Century Chinese Poetry, pp. 143-148.

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259

ously, sound like playful dayoushi, or doggerel. Interest m these old torms
was so noticeable in 1979 that a proposal was made in Peking to found
another national poetry journal devoted exclusively to shi and ci.^

Mao Zedong's advice to use nor these forms hut well-formulated images
from traditional poetry, confusing though it may be, has encouraged such
practitioners as Zhao Puchu or Ye Jianying (Ye is most senior surviving
Red Army commander and a former acting head of state). Zhao's expert
shi and ci are frequently published in the national press, but his efforts
violate just about every rule the May Fourth writers tried to establish
about clarity, plaui talk, avoidance of obscure allusions, and so on. Wit-
ness Zhao's poem on Zhou Enlai's death:

A great star falls from midsky,

All four seas surge in startled waves.

The last thread of hope severed,

Leaves us in perpetual sorrow.

Your dedicated life was in travail to the very end,

And care and toil worked hardship on your years.

Who in history could measure up to your statesmanship?

Your loyal heart shared the sun's glory.

Selfless, your merit rose high by itself,

Humility only added to your heroic stature.

The huge roc soars on great winds

While the tiny wren in weeds could only eye you with envy.

1, though ashamed of my feeble ability,

Have striven to offer my limited best.

Often 1 thought of your kind teaching.

Of it 1 always reminded myself in my life.

I mourn today, not because of our private friendship.

My tears are shed for a national sorrow.^"

Though this is a competent poem couched in rather graceful language
and cast in the mode of ancicnt*5tyle shi, with pentasyllable lines, in it
Zhao has used a ntunber of traditional images and expressions that are not
immediately clear to the uninitiated. The big roc and the wren in the weeds
come from the Zhuangzi, the second oldest Taoist text (it is perhaps two
thousand years old), which requires a high level of literacy. It is true that
Mao Zedong's poem of 1965, "Niaor wenda" [The birds' dialogue], put
these allusions into circulation. However, there are other lines equally or
more obscure. (Clarificarion of these obscurities in translation is unavoid-
able.) Sim ling meng in the sixth line and hengju wei zisoug in the six-
teenth line, translated above as, respectively, '^worked hardship on your

Interview with Bi Shuou.iDp, head ot the foreign liaison committee of the Chinese
Writers' Association, 17 September 1^79, in Iowa City.
ShUum 1 (January 1977): 14-15.

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years" and "1 always reminded myscit in my life" (or, "I always reminded
myselt throughout my quiet life"), are certainly not haihuj (plain talk).
The other poem Zhao published with this one is even worse; he had to
provide four footnotes to clarify three of its ten short Hnes.

Among the new imitations of traditional styles we cannot forget those
posted at the spontaneous demonstration in memory of Zhou Enlai in
Tiananmen Square on April 5, 1976. Some of them, such as the following
which is admittedly one of the very best of the collection, come close to
being inspired poetry. The immediacy of the experience and the intensity
of feeling are efiectively communicated in simple but forceful images; and
the language, while very compact, flows freely:

Yu bet I wen gut jiao,
W<y ku I cat long xiao.
Sa lei j //■ xiong }ie,
Ym met I iian chu xiao.

I sorrow, I hear ^osts howl,

I cry, the wolves laugh.

I shed tears mourning the hero.

My eyebrows raised, I draw my sword.^*

But some of the other poems strike a note more comic than somber,
closer to a light-hearted nursery rhyme than to a dirge written in sorrow or
in anger. As such they are quite inappropriate for the occasion:

Zongli xingxiang { zhen weida,
Renmin jingyang \ diren pa,
Weihe sheng pa \ si ye paf
Zhi yin renmm ( liliang da.

The premier's image is truly great.
The people respect him, the enemies fear him.
Why do they fear him, in life as well as in death?
Just because the people's strength is great.^

Furthermore, this is inadequate as a poem because it fails to arrest the
reader's imagination with any evocative imagery. It is singable, with its
repeated rhyming words, but, as with numerous other insignificant folk-
songs in the same form, there is not much else in it.

Sanqu, or ''free songs,** the arias of Yuan drama, have a direct lineage
from ci, but are gready enriched by the tunes used in folk drama. Origi-

^^Shikan 11 (November 1978): 30.

^ Ibid., p. 32. Translations of some of diese poems are in 71&e TUnummtn Poems, edited
and translated by Xiao Lan (Peking: Foreign Languages Press, 1979).

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CONTEMPORARY CHINESE POETRY

261

nally a suite of songs arranged to present characters and to carry a story
line, sanqu later developed into an independent poetic form. Ma Zhiyuan's
(fl. 1330) elegant xiaolitii^ (little tunes) were the forerunners of xiaoiliuo
(small songs), the more prosaic and bluntly, sometimes even coarsely,
expressive popular songs of the cities and countryside.

The singable quality of sutiqu has been effectively exploited by the
contemporary poet Liu Zheng, who specializes in satirical and humorous
verse. During the Cultural Revolution he remained silent, but his satires,
though limited in their targets, have returned since 1976. One of his poems
is cast as a scene in a modem zaju (Yuan *'vaii-drania'*):

Calling on the flics.

Asking the ants.

Scooping dry all the outhouses,

Searching through ail garbage piles.

Ah, finally, we've found you!

Lec*s not bother about your turning in a blank bluebook.
You have the greatest courage in opposing die tide.
Clearly you are number one in the world,
How can we flunk you?

Come, come, come.

Come backstage and let us teach you in secret a scheme to get on top of the
world with one leap.""

These lines are sung by four characters, the Four Tyrants (Gang of Four),
who enact onstage their scheme to pick an ignorant but obedient applicant
to serve as their lackey. The verse refers to an actual controversy over a
student who, upholding the Gang of Four policy of rebellion, refused to
hand in his bluebook during a college entrance examination; at the time he
won the case with the support of the Gang of Four faction.

Sets of Poems

Zushi, or sets of poems, have appeared frequently in recent publica-
tions. There are no formal requirements tor such sets, except that the poet
generally writes them on or around one subject, such as a trip to a memor-
able site. The set, "Zhungeer yangguang" fSunshine at Zhungeerj,'" which
Yu Li published in January 1979, includes four poems. F.ach has four
quatrains, all of which are related to an experience in northern Xinjiang.
Liang Shangquan's "Hexi zoulang bubu ge" [Songs step by step along the
corridor west of the Yellow River Bend], also published in January 1979,
has nine poems. They vary in length and form but were all inspired by the
poet's visit to the frontier region on the ancient silk road.^'

ShikMJ II (November 1977): 61-62.
*^Shikan I (January 1979): 42-45.
*^ Ibid., pp. 49-53.

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COMMON THEMES SINCE 1949

Like all the other literary genres, poetry has had to respond fully to the
political needs and campaigns of the time: the and^rightist campaigns to
suppress the opposition; the rectification campaigns to heighten political
vigilance; the youth-rustification campaigns to send young students to the
countryside and keep them there; the ephemeral lircnry thaw known as
the Hundred Flowers movement; and, currently, the Four Modernizations
movement. 1 he poets have been adapting whatever they write to reflect
the ongoing political line. Some succeed in turning out poetry that is good
despite its obvious political message; others produce pieces not much more
than occasional poems, obviously written simply because there was an
official occasion calling tor such expressions. Thus, in the issue of the
national Poetry Jotmial published in August 1976, only a few weeks be-
fore the downfall of the Gang of Four, panegyrics praising Mao appeared
on forty-four of its ninety-six pages, and condemnation of I.iu Shaoqi and
Deng Xiaoping stood out prominently in ten of its twenty-four poems.
Four months later, the same )ournal had become conspicuously nK)re mod-
est about Mao but overgenerous with its adulation of Zhou Enlai, Deng
Xiaoping, and Hua Guofeng.

Serious revolutionary experiences are usually recounted in longer po-
ems. Tian Jian's ''Qianli si** [Thoughts, thousands of miles away]^ tells of
the bitter experience of a poor peasant who had to sell his wife and three
daughters; Zhang Zhimin's "Leitai" [Contest platform]^^ portrays a mem-
orable segment of the history of land reform; and Zou Difan*s *'Lao da-
niangde kang** [The old aunt's kangY^ depicts life in the countryside on the
eve of Liberation.

Most noteworthy are the verses that focus on some aspect of proletarian
life and that ring with genuine joy and excitement. These feelings are
tangible in Tang Datong's songs of river boatmen, in Li Ying*s lyrics on a
day in a soldier*s life, and in Feng Jingyuan's works on the tempering of
steel. The Paul-Bunyanesque stature of the porter in such a new folksong
as **Wo shi yige zhuangxiegong** [Fm a longshoreman]'*^ can be most
attractive, as can the folk humor of "Yige hongshu gunxia po" [A sweet
potato rolls off the hiil].^*^ Demanding that barren rocks grow grain, build-
ing dikes to harness troublesome rivers, and other equally impressive feats
performed by heroic conunon people are perennial subjects. Legends of

^ Shikan 1 (January 1964): 4-7.

Shikan 8 (August 1963): 4-16. Translated by Kai-yu Hsu in The Literature of the
People's Republic of China, pp. 653-664.

Hsu, The Chinese Literary Scene, pp. 200-202.
Hsu, Twentieth Century Chinese Poetry, p. 451.
^ Ibid., p. 454.

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ethnic minorities, some in translation, have stayed in favor, as have ac-
counts of visits to frontier areas.

By the end of 1976, a few satirical and humorous verses had returned
following the bleak days of the Cultural Revolution. Love poems, how-
ever, have been few since 1949, and the very few such pieces printed have
aroused controversies similar to that which surrounded the poem "'De-
tour," cited above. The recent discussions of the role of love in literature
have been accompanied by a few new love poems.

AT THE END OF THE 1970s

The search continues for ideal forms that will allow poets to develop
their voices fully, and there has been a rich variety of innovations. The
cautious liberalization of the late 1970s holds out a promise to the 1980s.
Classics, both Chinese and Western, have been reissued: works of proven
worth that had b^n blacklisted during the Cultural Revolution have been
republished, and a stream of seleaed contemporary Western poetry is
appearing in Chinese bookstores. Shakespeare is once again popular, and
T. S. Eliot need no longer be read in secret. The trend is indeed encourag-
ing, though not without impediments.

While ideological dicta are likely to remain overall guidelines, they are
now susceptible to a rather wide spectrum of interpretations. Zhou Enlai*s
speech of 1961 did not contradict the Yan*an ''Talks," but its release in
1979 encouraged a clamor for the relaxation of controls that in other
times could easily have caused another wave of purges. What if times
change? Barely two months after the publicizing of Zhou's speech, die
**Dcmocracy Wall" in the populous western district of Peking had become
a center of controversy. The official attitude which first tolerated or even
encouraged the unofficial literature and political statements pasted up on
the wall soon changed. The editors of the more outspoken journals have
been arrested, tried, and condemned. By the end of the year, Democracy
Wall had been removed to a more remote spot. On January 1, 1980, Deng
Xiaoping accused some protesters of using democracy to camouflage their
goal of disrupting the nation's unity and progress. '''' So long as literature,
like every other human endeavor in China, must serve only one political
purpose — which, at the moment, is the four modernizations — the specter
of brutal control through mob action that reached its frightening worst
during the 1960s could raise its ugly head again at any time.

Critics have begun to break the habit, established in 1949, of referring
constantly to the Yan'an "Talks on Literature and Art." Until very re-
cently, every word uttered by Mao on literature in general and on poetry

^ China Dotty Netvs (New York), 8 January, 1980, p. 4.

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264

KAI-YU HSU

in particular echoed through these critics' essays. 1 he handful of poems
that Mao allowed to be published were given the most thorough and
diligent critical attention, as though they were the highest and only models
of poetry for the nation to emulate. Inspired by Mao's letter to Chen Yi,
some critics started refcrrmg to the classical tenets laid down by such old
authorities as Zhong Hong (fl. ca. 504, author of SbifJin) and Liu Xie (fl.
ca. 530, author of Wenxin diaolong).^^' This trend leaves us still eagerly
awaiting the formulation of some new, valid artistic criteria. Indeed, at
times we may wonder if some of the new critics are sufficiently familiar
with classical Chinese poetry. One of them even praised as fresh and new a
few lines that Chen Yi had copied from the eleventh-century poet Li Zhiyi.
These lines form the lyrics to a popular song that every Chinese person
(outside the PRC) has known for years.^'

Poets today stress the importance of imagery. I have discussed elsewhere
the promising development of visceral rather than intellectual responses to
such beautiful but stock images inherited from classical Chinese poetry as
the arrival of autunm and die fading of flowers.^^ The development is
promising because it raises new evocative power from old images. Unfor-
tunately, here too the poetic well threatens to run dry too soon. A new-
comer, Jiang Zhou, sees pearls when he looks at the electric light in a
commune:

Now our coniniuiic s power plant towers high.
The pearls fall into our village from the sky."

Twenty years ago, in Songs of the RcJ i Lig, other proletarian poets had
seen the same pearls, as have many others in between.'^ Another new-

An example is Xie Mian's review of the poems publishcti m Slukjn durmu I 1977:
Shikan 3 (March 1978), pp. 83-88. In the early 1960s, the |ournal even carried a column of
"po€try talk," which reprinted some traditional reading notes written by erudite scholars and
poets in high-flown wmyan (the classical Chinese language).

Shtium 8 (August 1977): 88. The eleventh-century poet's verse is (roughly translated):

You live at the river's source;

1 live at the river's mouth.

Every day i think of you but cannot see you,

Though we drink from the same river.

Oien Yi*s poem reads:

I live at the river's source;
You live at the river's niourh.
With unlimited teeling between us.
We drink from the same river.
See introduction in Kai-yu Hsu, ed., The Literature of the People's Republic of Chnuit
pp. 8-9

" ShiLm 11 i Novemher l^'S i: 59-60.

Chai Qingshan, "Dengdc xiagu" [Valley ol lampsj, m /.hun you hau [ 1 he batde is still
intense] (Peking, 1974), p. 171.

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CONTEMPORARY CHINESE POETRY

265

comer, Bao Yutang, wrote a poem entitled "Gehai chunchao gungun lai**
[The springtide rolls on and on in the sea ot songs],'' m which he saw the
Goddess of Mount Wu startled by the new society. Mao saw much the
same vision in 1956, in his poem "Youyong" jSwimmingJ, and other
proletarian poets have also invited the lady into their verses. The carrying
pole, which became an impressive image of proletarian heroism in 1958,
has since found too many pale imitations.^^ Such examples could be multi-
plied ad infinitum. Small wonder that, at times, the writers themselves
complain of "collisions'* — of two poets writing on the same theme, using
the same form and the same images.^*

The push towards popularization in poetry in the 1950s and 196()s was
a mixed success. The so-called "debates" on form continued to keep alive
the issue of which path vernacular literature should follow, hut failed to
resolve it. Certainly in this period a wide variety of poetic torins flour-
ished, including classical, folk, popular, and modern. I hc same is true, to a
lesser extent and in reduced quantity, of the seventies, especially after
1975.^' Post-1949 Chinese poetry is also distinguished by the extremely
wide range of authors whose work has found its way into the official
media, from elderly generals to student protesters, from senior intellectuals
to workers and peasants. In this sense, poetry continues to be a ^'popular"
art in China in a way now almost unknown in the West. The search for an
ideal form, in poetry as in everything else, will never be realized, but
perhaps the discoveries made in the course of searching are what really
matter. In this light, the tireless (though at times tiring) talk about poetic
forms holds promise for the future of poetry in China.

" Shikan 12 (December 1978): 38-39.

Sfc Hiinng Shangxiao's poem, for example, in Tiaoshan danhai gen dang zou [Carrying
the mountain and sea on my shoulders I follow the Party] fPckinp, 1974), p. 1 1.

^ Ibid., p. 10, and in Shanghai mm'ge xuan [Selected tolksongs ot Shanghai] (Shanghai,
1973), p. 84.

^ Shikm 8 (August 1977): 89.

" Hsu, The Chinese Literary Scene, pp. 165-264, and McDougall, "Poems, Poets, and
Poetry 1976," especially pp. 93-99.

Copyrighiixl material

Part III

Three Decades
in Historical Perspective

Copyrighted matBrial

TWELVE

Writers and Performers,
Their Works,
and Their Audiences
in the First Three Decades

Bonnie S, McDougall

The essays in this volume sui^gest a common theme around which a gen-
eral cultural history of the period 194*-^- 1 979 can be constructed: the
attempted transformation, consciously implemented hv the new state, of
an elitist, author-centered culture (i.e., one designed by authors! into a
mass, audience-centered culture (i.e., one designed by or for the audience).
This transtormation could be carried out in three ways: by controlling
authors, by controlling their work, or by controlling their audiences. All
three ways have been tried. Authors and also performers became state
tunctionaries under Party or other control, so that their intellectual and
artistic autonomy could be underiinned by political demands. Such audi-
ence-centered genres as the performing arts were given new respectability
as legitimate elements in the creation of a new national culture and even,
at one time, almost completely supplanted the more author-centered liter-
ary arts. The audience to which writers and artists were to address them-
selves was first defined extremely narrowly and then declared to be the
only audience. Furthermore, the official conception of the needs and wants
of that audience was more often based on theory than on ascertainable
fact.

In pursuing this new national culture, writers, performers, and Party
leaders turned increasingly to Chinese traditional culture for legitimation,
inspiration, and concrete models. This tendency first began during the War
of Resistance to Japan (1937-1945), was formalized during the Yan*an
period (1942—1947), received new encouragement during the Great Leap
Forward (1958-1959), and culminated in the Cultural Revolution and its

I wish to thank T. D. Huters for having read through this paper and ofiiered many
valuable suggestions, most of which have been gratefully adopted. He bears no responsibility
for any errors that remain.

269

uopynghiea inaiuiial

270

BONNIE S. McDOUGALL

aftermath (1966-1976). This "great return" (to use Cyril Birch's expres-
sion) was a highly selective one, as many of the essays in this volume point
out, and non-C^hinese elements were not easily discarded from even the
most radical creations of the new culture. Nevertheless, from the perspec-
tive of the 1980s, China's search for precedents from its popular tradition
to use in creating a new, modern, national, and popular culture was the
most significant underlying trend of the preceding three decades.

THE BEGINNINGS, 1949-1966

Writers and Performing Artists: Social and Political Ro/es'
Literature and its related performing arts were mobilized to support the
new state in China early in 1949, even before the formal promulgation of
the new People's Republic. Writers and performers who had distinguished
themselves in the previous decades were given assurance of an honored
place in the new society. The cordiality shown toward them was part of a
general policy to welcome intellectuals, even though some of the per-
formers were not intellectuals in the sense of having received a scholastic
liberal-arts or professional education. Many who, like Hou Baolin, were
masters of the popular performing arts had not hitherto been included in
the limited circle of writer-intellectuals from the May Fourth tradition. Rut
no matter whether their former positions were elevated or humble, the
writers and performers were offered security and welcome in the new
society. The great majority accepted the offer.

Over the decade and a half leading up to the Cultural Revolution, it
began to appear that for some, especially among the famous .May Fourth
figures, this acceptance had been limited or partial. Some, like Shen
Congwen and Qian Zhongshu, abandoned their writing careers, voluntar-
ily or otherwise, and disappeared into the relative obscurity of universities

' There is a great dearth of infurmation about the material and social conditions of
Chinese writers and performers (especially the Littcn. which seriously hampers tht- study of
their political role and artistic production. In this section, ! have relied hea\ily on Franz
bchurmann, Ideology and Organization in Commiomt China, 2d ed. (berkeley: University of
California Press, 1970), for information on intellectuals in the administrative apparatus, from
whidi I have extrapolated writers* conditions. For a close-up of the workings of the appara-
tus on the provincial level, see Ezra Vogel, Canton under Communism: Programs and Politics
tn J Vrovmcial (..apital, 1*^4^- 19iiS iC amhridpe, Mass.: Harvard Universirv Press. \ For
a general history of writers as state and Party functionaries, see Lars Rjgvald, Yau enyuan
as a Literary Critic: The Emergence of Chinese Zhdanovism (Stockholm: Stockholm Univer-
sity, Institute of Oriental Languages, 1978) and "Professionalism and Amateur Tendencies in
Post-Revolutionary Chinese Literature," in Goran .Vlalinqvist, ed., Modern Chinese Litera-
ture and its Social (.ontext (Stockholm: Nobel Foundation, 1977!, pp. 152-1 "'9. For the
ideological and political debates of the 1950s, see D. W. Fokkema, Literary Doctrine tn
China and Soviet Infiuence, 1956-1960 (The Hague: Mouton, 1965), and Merle Goldman,
Literary Dissent in Conmutnist China (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Preu, 1967).

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THE FIRST THREE DECADES

271

and museums. Many continued to play a role in public literary life but as
academics, critics, and literary bureaucrats rather than as creative writers.
This group included some of the most distinguished names of the 19^0s:
Mao Dun, Wu Zuxiang, Ding I.ing. Only a handful, such as Zang Kejia
and Tian jian, kept up their creative writing past the first few years of the
new society. Others, such as Guo Moruo and Me Qitang, soon abandoned
their May Fourth identities and, as often as not, cast their sporadic contri-
butions to the national press in the traditional styles.

As the writers and performers settled down in their new positions and
began to exercise the new functions delegated to them by the state, some
were able lo consolidate their previous power, some achieved new emi-
nence, and others were banished from the (geographic or political) center
as scapegoats when their and their colleagues' stumbling experiments in
policy formation failed. Nevertheless, what is remarkable about the Chi-
nese literary and performing arts establishment (with a few important
exceptions) is that, up to their common engulfment in the Cultural Revolu-
tion, they all, from distinguished leaders to humblest novitiates, remained
loyal to the interests of the state and to its rulers. None of them offered
opposition except, as during the Hundred Flowers movement of 1956—
1957, at the express invitation of the state. The most noteworthy literary
attack on state power came not from the professional creative writers but
from politically active intellectuals such as the historian and vice-mayor of
Peking, Wu Han, and the Party organizer and journalist, Deng Tuo.^ In
line with Chinese tradition, much of Wu Han's and Deng Tuo*s political
criticism was in literary form — a faa that, incidentally, underlines the
failure of writers in this regard.

The organization and administration of control or censorship over Chi-
nese writers and performers has not been systematically described or ana-
lyzed. Some Western scholars speak loosely of censorship as emanating
from a single unit at the center, though this does not seem to be the case
either on the mainland or in Taiwan.^ On the mainland, directives to

' For literar>' and other dissent in the I*^>>()s .inJ c.iriy l9<S()s, sic Inkkttn.i, l ilcmry
Doctrine; Goldman, Literary Dissent; Peter Moody, Opposition ami Dissent in Contempo-
rary China (Stanford: Hoover Institution Press, 1977); Bonnie S. McDougall, "Dissent Litcra-

ture and Contemporary China: Varieties of Official and Non-Official Literature in and about
China in the Seventies." Contemporary China 3, 4 (Winter 1979): 49-79. For Wu Han and

Deng Tuo, see Timothy Cheek, "Deng Tiio: Culture, I eninism and Alternative Marxism in
the Chinese Communist Partv," China (^)narterl\ 87 [September I':'S1;: 470-491.

* The otricial policy ot the Republic ot China is that there is no censorship cither bctorc or
after publication. However, the Government Information Office of the Executive Yuan has a
publications department that **supervises and controls" publications and a morion pictures
department that censors films. According to the constitution, the national budget must allot
15 percent of its expenditure to educational programs, scientiHc studies, and cultural services;
this policy indicates a considerable level ot state involvement in cultural attairs {China Year-

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BONNIE S. McDOUGALL

writers and pertormcrs, and the pressure to observe these directives, are
apparently sent from the center down in several different ways and are
implemented at different levels with varying degrees of severity.

One important control mechanism is the recruitment of writers and
artists into the state's cultural apparatus and the supervision of their activi-
ties through the professional assodations. The Ministry of Culture and
other governmental institutions, such as the universities and academies, are
dominated by a mixture of famous literary figures (Mao Dun, Guo
Moruo) and Party personnel with a background in the arts (Lin Mohan,
Zhou Yang, Yu Huiyong). The professional associations, such as the Chi-
nese Writers* Association, are described as voluntary mass organizations,
though in fact membership is strialy by invitation only. The professional
associations are nominally responsible to the Chinese National Federation
of Writers and Artists, but this umbrella organization possesses litde sub-
stantive power. Instead, it is believed that the associations, like the acade-
mies, are supervised by and responsible to the Party's Central Committee.^
Writers and performers who accept membership in the associations and
carry out the tasks assigned to them by the state are quite generously
rewarded.^

A second control mechanism is the recruitment of writers and per-
formers (lircc tly into the Party itself. Unlike its counterpart in the U.S.S.R.,
the Party leadership in China has always included men of some literary
cultivation. Such men had received a traditional elite education in their
childhood, together with some Western education in the 191()s and 192()s.
Similarly, man\ writers and literary critics of the 1930s threw in their lot
with the Communists before 1949 and acted as leading Party spokesmen
after 1949. There is, therefore, a considerable overlap in literary and Party
personnel through the post-Liberation period.

A third important control mechanism is the public campaign, which
usually involves an attack, organized by the Party cultural authorities, on a

honk. 197S (Taipei: China Publishing Company, 19^78), pp. 2S2, 25S. 648, 662). For in-
staiiccs ot censorship in raivvan. sec articles by John Israel, Mei Wen li, and Lucy H. Chen in
Mark Mancall, cd., tormosa I vJuy iNew York; I'raeger, 1^64), and Mab Huang, Intellec-
tual Ferment for PoUHcal Refemns in Taiwan, 1971-1973 (Ann Arbor: University of Michi-
gan Center for Chinese Studies, 1976).

* Howard I . Roorman, "The Literary World of Mao Tse-tung," in Cyril Birch, ed.,
Communist Chinese I ifcrjturc (New York: I'raeger, 1*^6^), p. 28.

' Only scattered intormation is available about the methods and scales ot payment. Lhe
subject is treated in Paul Bady, "The Modem Chinese Writer: Literary Incomes and Best
Setlers**, China Quarterly 88 (December 1981): 645>657, and in Ragvald, Yao Wenyuan,
passim. Apart from royalty payments, salaries, trips within the country and abroad, and
other special perquisites, rewards could also include publication of a writer's collected works,
such as those for Guo Moruo, Yc Shengtao, Mao Dun, and Ba Jin in 1957-1958: sec
Fokkema, Literary Doctrine, p. 149 et passim. Performers were also treated as national
celebrities, and the more famous were made members of the National People's Congress.

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THE FIRST THREE DECADES

273

specially targeted scapegoat. The scapegoat and his or her associates may
be punished extremely harshly to serve as a warning to others, and the
evidence is that this form of intimidation is successful. Thus, control or
censorship is exercised in manifold and often subtle ways and is largely
administered by writers or Party ofhcials with some literary experience.
The mixture of rewards for conforming with many kinds of pressure and
the fear of public attack and punishment has proved a very effective con-
trol device.

The process of absorbing intellectuals in general into state organs began
very soon after the new state's establishment. Between October 1949 and
September 1952, over two million people were recruited mto the new
administrative system. The Party had to look beyond its own resources to
find administrators for the new state bureaucracy. These were drawn from
three major sources: worker and peasant activists, new graduates of higher
and middle schools, and the old uitelligentsia. The Party may have wished
otherwise, but it needed the old intcHigentsia to cope with the greatly
expanded state apparatus.' Writers had their special functions as profes-
sional intellectuals: staffing publishing houses and editorial boards, teach-
ing and conducting writers' workshops, publicizing the policies and achieve*
ments of the new society within the country, representing their country
abroad, and receiving foreign visitors at home. Performing artists shared in
these or similar activities. How useful the cultural workers were in most of
these functions depended on their level of professional skills and on their
observable social prestige. Hence, their living conditions and salaries were
appreciably higher than those of the average worker.^ As members of a
professional intelligentsia, they benefited from the respect that experts or
specialists had enjoyed since China became interested in Western technol-
ogy m the twentieth century. This respea had been further reinforced after
1949 when the Party set die ideological goal of rapidly creating a fully
industrialized modern society in China.' The writers also inherited from
traditional Chinese culture the ancient respect accorded masters of the
written word.'

Two elites were growing up in China in the 1950s: the red elite of the
Party cadres, who had political power, and the expert elite, whose educa-
tion gave them exclusive knowledge. In 1956, out of a total population of
over 600,000,000 only 3,840,000 were classified as intellectuals (defined
as graduates of higher middle schools and up); of these, 500,000 were

■ Schurmann, hleolugy and Organization, pp. 167-168.

^ For some information on duties and remunerations of writers in the 1950s, see Ragvald,
"ProfessionaUsm," pp. 153-156, 157-158, 160.

' Schurmann, Ideology and Orgattizatiottt p. 51; Vogel, Canton under Communbmt pp.

127-128.

^ i"okkema. Literary Doctrine, p. 58.

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274

BONNIE S. McDOUGALL

classed as "technicians" and only 100,000 as "higher intellectuals.'"^
Writers (numbering less than 1000) and performers were presumably in-
cluded in the latter group, along with university professors and so on."
Thus, the higher intellectuals constituted only about .1 percent of the total
population, while Party membership formed a significantly higher 1.79
percent. The percentage of Party members was, therefore, roughly equiva-
lent to that of the gentry elite in the old society.*^

The existence of these two elites, political and expert, was a constant
source of tension throughout the 1950s and 1960s. The "thought re-
form** campaign of the early 1950s was an unsuccessful attempt to merge
the two into a single group of educated, politically conunitted state func-
tionaries. Zhou Enlai recognized the failure of this policy in a speech of
January 1956, in which he promised more autonomy and better condi-
tions to intellectuals in return for their support of Party policies. Zhou's
speech had been foreshadowed by a series of articles by intelleauals in
Renmm rihao [People's daily]. The articles had called on the cadres to
improve their attitudes toward intellectuals and for improvements in in-
tellectuals' working conditions — ^in particular, for more pay and better
equipment."

As a mark of the Party's new hospitalit\ toward intellectuals, in the
period between Zhou's speech and the end of the Hundred Flowers move-
ment in 1957, they were recruited into the Party itself at a higher rate than
any other social group (49 percent of the recruits over this period were
intellectuals). In 1956 intellectuals constituted some 11.7 percent of Party
members; by 1957 this had risen to 14.78 percent. An occupational survey
of the Party in 1956 showed that people in cultural and educational posi-
tions formed 3.8 percent of the Party membership; presumably this tigure
also increased in 1957.'^ According to Zhou Enlai in 1956, only some 40
percent of the 100,000 higher intellectuals actively supported the Party;
however, the overw'hclming majority of intellectuals had already become
"government workers in the service Socialism."'' By the mid- 1950s, the
nuellectuals had already formed a small but wcll-cntrenched social elite

"> Schurmann, Ideology and Organization, pp. 8, 11-12, 51, 93, 96, 132-139.

"Ragvald, "Professionalism," pp. 160, If^"'; I.iu Baiyu, "Wd fonying wenxue diuangzuo
erfendoii," Wcnyi ban 5-6 (March 1956): 29-33.

See C Iniiig-li (Jliaiig, Ihc ( J)incsc iientry: Studies on Their Role in Nineteenth Century
Chinese Society (Seattle: University ot Washington Press, 1955), esp. pp. 137-141.

The most detailed and up-to-date study on the years 1956-1957 is Roderick Mac-
Farquhar, The Origins of the Cultural Revolution: 1. Contradictions among the People
1956- /957 (London: Oxford UnivtTsiry Press, 1974), on which I have relied heavily for the
next few pages. For the Zhou tnlai speech, see pp. 33-35. See also Ragvald, "Professional-
ism," pp. 158-160, 167-170.

Schurmann, Ideology and Organization, pp. 132-139.

MacFarquhar, Origins, pp. 34, 93.

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I Ht 1-lRSl THREE DECADES

27S

and had made progress toward penetrating the political elite. The ideal of
a "red and expert"' class seemed feasible.'*

Among the other practical measures taken after Zhou Hnlai's speech to
encourage intellectuals were improvements in their livuig and working
conditions; salary increases: reductions in their political, social, and ad-
ministrative duties; and reductions in unemployment among the group.
The Hundred Mowers campaign, launched shortly afterward, was designed
to permit greater cultural variety and enjoyment, as an encouragement
both to the creative writers and performers and to their intellectual audi-
ence. Nevertheless, with a £ew bold exceptions, intellectuals and writers
showed considerable reluctance at first to take advantage of the apparent
relaxation.

A further and very important concession to non-Party intellectuals was
Mao*s willingness, first expressed at the Eighth Party Congress in Septem-
ber 1956, to encourage them to criticize Party members. This policy was
soon given new urgency by the troubles in Eastern Europe later in the
same year. There is evidence that Zhou Enlai, Deng Xiaoping, and Chen
Boda supported Mao*s liberal line, while Liu Shaoqi, Peng Zhen, Lu Ding-
yi, Peng Dehuai, and lower-ranking Party members like E>eng Tuo (then
chief editor of People's Daily) took a more authoritarian and sectarian line
in their disinclination to allow open season on Party members. (Govern-
ment workers, on the other hand, were considered fair game.) With oppo-
sition from within the leadership, therefore, Mao's new ^^rectification cam-
paign" was officially under way by May 1, 1957. Its aim was to correct
bureaucratic, seaarian, and subjective work styles among Party cadres,
and testimony was earnestly solicited from non-Party intellectuals."^

Although the rectification was designed by Mao to promote criticism of
the Party, it stirred up so much criticism of and outright opposition to the
Party and its policies that the Party officials who had been suspicious about
it from the very beginning were able to redirect it into an '*anti rightist"
attack on the intellectuals who had spoken out.'^ Wu Han, presumably with
the backing of his patron, Peng Zhen, wrote the first denunciation of ''bour-
geois rightists" — those who had accepted Mao's invitation to speak out in
the "blooming and contending" of May and june 19 57 The nnmbrr of
' rightists" among students and intellectuals was estimated as about three

Schurmann, Ideology and Organization, pp. 98-99.

MacFarquhar, Origins, pp. .^5, 51-56, 75-77, 83-85, 92-96, 200, 209.

Ibid., pp. 112-116, 177-183, 186-199, 200-217, 241-249; Vogel, Canton under
Comtmmismt pp. 188-199; Goldman, Literary Dment, pp. 187-191.

For die antirightist campaign, see MacFarquhar, Origins, pp. 261-310; Schurmann,
Ideology and Organization, p. 91; Fokkema, Literary Doctrine, pp. 147-151; Goldman,
Literary Dissent, pp. 203-242; Ragvald, "Professionalism," pp. 170-172; Jack Chen, inside
the Cultural Revolution (New York: Macmillan, 1975), pp. 118-122.
^ MacFarquhar, Origins, pp. 271, 277-278.

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BONNIE S. McDOUGALL

hundred thousand. Not all, but perhaps the ma|ority of rightists were
intellectuals; the term obviously took in more than just the "higher intel-
lectuals." Mao estimated that about one-third of the rightists were pri-
mary-school teachers."' In the rectification and antirightist campaigns,
several thousand Party members were expelled, including such Party in-
tellectuals as Ding Ling, Ai Qing, and Feng Xuefcng. Some of the right-
ists, including these three, were given severe and lengthy punishment. A
small percentage (26,000) had their rightist labels removed in October
1959; many others had to wait another twenty years.^ Since the intellec-
tuals, including writers, were the best-known and most articulate critics
of the Hundred Flowers period, their suppression attracted a good deal
of world attention. However, the majority of the famous intellectuals,
such as the May Fourth writers, were still able to hold on to their official
positions.

By the close of 1957, even Mao had lost his enthusiasm for using
non-Party intellectuals to help reform the Party. The majority of the intel-
lectuals, he found, had not yet undergone a true transformation of outlook
but constituted a separate group with its own values: traditional gentry
and Western values learned before 1949." The criticisms they brought
forward in May and June revealed not only the gap between Party ideals
and practice, but pointed to an even greater gap between Maoist ideals
and practice and the values of the senior intellectuals.

After 1957 the writers* social position as an elite group was more open
to attack, since their autonomy threatened both the Party elite and Mao's
wish to curb that elite. The next great campaign, the Great Leap Forward
of 1958-1959, was accompanied by another great wave of hostility
against intellectuals as professionals. They were accused of demanding
exclusive control of technology, a charge that led, by extension, to attacks
on protessionalism in the arts. Those acting as state functionaries in the
middle tier of organization were an especially easy target for the Utopian
radicalism of the Great Leap. Lao She and Ba Jin, despite their great
prestige among their fellow intellectuals, also came under attack at this
time, but their seniors, such as Mao Dun and Guo Moruo, survived these
attacks as they had the antirightist campaign.

The Great Leap Forward saw a new upsurge in encouragement to ama-
teur writers, in sinking contrast to Soviet policy toward writers and artists

" Ibid., pp. 314,405.

" Ibid, p. 314; Chen, Inside the Ctdtural RetfoUokm, p. 119. For die rehabilitation of
flutists in 1978, sec- below.

MacFarquhar, Origins, pp. 297-298; Schurmann^ Ideology and Organization, pp. 16,
171; Goldman, Literary Dissent, pp. 201-202, 240.

Sdmrnuuin, Idet^ogy and Organization, pp. 72, 91; Fokkema, IMerury Doctrine, pp.
192-196, 208-210; Goldman, Literary Dissent, pp. 262-263.

oopyiighiea inaiuiial

THE FIRST THREE DECADES

277

at that timc."^ Old May Fourth figures like Zhou Yang and duo Moruo
were quick to associate themselves with amateur writing and with the
concomitant revival of mterest in the native popular tradition (see below).
They thus emerged with their reputations enhanced. However, the disloca-
tions caused by the economic failure of the Leap forced the abandonment
of further ambitious plans for mass writing. Professional writers were also
affected by the hardships of the ''three hard years" (1960-1962), but their
living standards improved somewhat, relative to those of the general popu-
lation, and the policy of sending intellectuals to the countryside was
relaxed.^^ It was also a period of realignment in political and ideological
positions. The two elite groups, Party and professional, found a conunon
interest in maintaining a professional technical and cultural establishment
against the populist line of Mao and his supporters. Mao, however, had
retreated to the ''second front" of Party leadership after his setbacks from
the Hundred Flowers and Great Leap Forward campaigns, and in these
three years the Party apparatus was dominant.

The professional writers did not use their improved status and the new
relaxation, therefore, to criticize the Party, as in the 1950s. (Intellectuals
such as Wu Han and Deng Tuo, however, were able to publish devastat-
ingly satirical attacks on Mao and his policies, often in literary form.) I he
professional writers were concentrating on raising literary standards by
creating a new definition of their audience that would allow them to
address their social peers and b\ extending the permitted subject matter
beyond the Party-imposed model of conflicts between heroes and villains.
Both of these moves by writers were strongly opposed by a new group of
Party-traintd intellectuals — people like Yao Wenyuan who retained the
spirit oi radical utopianisni from the Ctreat Leap and who opposed the
restoration of May Fourth intellectuals to social prestige and middle- and
upper-level power in culture and education. In the early 196()s, these radi-
cals were not permitted to express unduly harsh criticisms of writers, nor
had they the political power to enforce their ideas.

When Mao made his comeback to the front line of Party leadership in
1962, it was the field of literature and art to which he directed his princi-
pal attention. In the summer of 1962, he made an open attack on the
literature ot the last few years: "The use of novels for aiui-1'ariy activity is
a great invention."^'' He did not name any particular novels or authors at

¥oT thf changing policy toward amateurs in the 1950s, see Ragvald, "Professionalism";
Fokkema, Literary Doctrine, pp. 192-196, 202-205, 208. See discussion below on the
revival of interest in the nati\ c popular tradition.

^ Ragvald, "Professionalism," pp. 178-179.

^^Ragvald, Yao Wenyuati, pp. 146-161.

^* Mao's speech at the Tenth Plenum of the Kighth CcFitral Committee (24 September
1962), in Stuart Schram, ed., Mao Tse-tung Unrehearsed: Talks and Letters, 1956-1971
(Penguin, 1974), p. 195; released for publication in China in 1967 (see Yao Wenjruan article,
p. 31f cited in footnote 39, below). See also Gien, Inside the Cuitural Revolution, p. 150.

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BONNIE S. McDOUGALL

this point, but two years later he made further attacks on the professional
arts estabhshment: "We must drive actors, poets, dramatists and writers
out of the cities and pack them all off to the countryside. . . . We must not
let writers stay in the government offices. . . . Whoever does not go down
[to the countryside] will get no dinner; only when they go down will they
be fed." And in 1965: "Today's philosophers can't turn out philosophy,
writers can*t write novels, and historians can't produce history. All they
want to write about is emperors, kings, generals and ministers.'*^' The
denunciation of writers whose works were published in the 1950s and
early 1960s began, and the movement to repudiate ''middle charaaers**
{zhongjian renwu: characters who are neither villains nor heroes), de-
fended in the early 1960s by professional writers, got under way.^^

At the same time, attacks on the Ministry of Culture and on traditional
theater were being made by Mao personally, with the assistance of his
wife, Jiang Qing, and of the army leadership under Lin Biao. In January
1965, Mao Dun was dismissed as Minister of Culture, signaling the immi-
nent destruction of the cultural elite. In AprH 1966 the whole Ministry was
abolished, most theaters closed down, and publication of literary works
came almost to a standstill. The Party's cultural authorities, like Zhou
Yang and Lin Mohan, came equally under attack. The situation at its
worst continued for another five years, and it took more than another five
years to restore cultural activities to their previous level. In this ten-year
period, the survival of the intellectual elite, both as a group and as indi-
viduals, was in extreme jeopardy. With one outstanding exception, author-
centered culture was replaced with an audience-centered and anonymous
culture. The exception, of course, was the work of Mao himself.

When writers were swept out of their positions of power and prestige
during the Cultural Revolution, it was not because they had offered oppo-
sition to the status quo, but because ot the loyalty they had shown to the
now-discredited state organs and Party elite — a loyalty for which they had,
in many cases, received substantial rewards. It seems inherently unlikely
that such a mass dismissal of writers and performers could have resulted
merely from the vvhmi of a small clique of radicals or of a few frustrated
writers and performers, l o some extent, there was a social basis for the
anger that younger members of Chinese society felt against professional
intellectuals and the literary and arts establishment. As Schurmann points
out, by the 1960s there was still not a unified elite to replace the tradi-
tional gentry in exercising authority at all levels, nor was diere a common
culture that could produce such an elite. The educational level of the great

Mao's remarks ar the Spring Festival, siimmar\' record, 13 F-tbru.irv- 1964, in Schram,
Mao Tse-tung Unrehearsed, p. 207; speech at Hangzhou, 21 December 1^65, ibid., p. 237.

^ See Joe C. Huang, Heroes and Villains in Communist China: The Contemporary
Chinese Novel as a Reflection of Life (London: Hurst, 1973), pp. 253-254, 266-284.

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masses of Chinese people was still very low. According to the 1964 census
figures, only 1.735 percent of the population could he counted as "intellec-
tuals" (i.e., as having a senior secondary or higher education), and illiter-
ates and scmiliterates still constituted 38.1 percent of the population. Al-
though the failure of the Great Leap Forward had united the intellcLiiial
and political elites against the Party populists, there was still no common
goal for the two elites. The social elite of intellectuals, with its links to the
past and to the West, was cut off from the political elite that was trying to
create a new society with little connection to either the past or the West.^'
But when Mao and the clique around him urged the breaking up of estab>
lished hierarchies of power during the Cultural Revolution, both elites
were equally discredited. Neither had a strong enough power base to
establish supremacy over the other or to offset Mao*s personal prestige as
a spokesman for the masses. The disaffection of the Party does not concern
us here; but why was it so easy to estrange the intellectuals, including
writers and performers, from the rest of society?

In traditional Chinese society, despite their enormous differences in so-
cial position and personal wealth, the gentry and the peasantry still shared
a common culture; they occupied different ends of the same sociocultural
spectrum. The May Fourth writers removed themselves from this common
cultural bond by deUberately choosing alien cultural values. Nevertheless,
by adopting the Western role of the writer as the "universal intellectuar
who fights for social justice and for all oppressed classes or groups,^^ the
May Fourth writers achieved a new position in Chinese society. They may
not have won universal acceptance within their own culture, but they were
considered articulate, prolific, respeaed, and influential by the younger
generation. After 1949, the writers again became part of the establishment,
but now they did not share a common cultural or social outlook with the
other major elite group or with the masses. At the same time, as function-
aries of the state, they lost their role as "universal intellectuals" speaking
out on behalf of the masses against state power. Instead, they grasped the
opportunity to exercise the state power that their predecessors had wielded
in imperial C^hina hut that had been denied them in the chaos of the early
twentieth century. They may in fact have only enjoyed the outward show
of power rather than the substance, but as their interests in some ways
overlapped with the interests ot the Party elite, this probably came to
matter less.

It may be wrong to condemn these writers and performers for their
decision to join the state and Party apparatus. As Czeslaw Milosz points

Sdiurmann, IJi'oloi^y and Orsijuization, p. 12.

For the "universal intellectual," see Michel Foucaulr. "Truth and Power," in Meaghan
Morns and I'aul Fatten, eds., Michel hotuauU: Power, Iruth, Strategy (Sydney: l eral Publi-
cations, 1979), pp. 29-47, csp. pp. 41-47.

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out in his discussion of Polish writers who acted sunilarly, "W c must not
ovcrsimpHfy, however, the gratifications of personal ambition; they are
merely the outward and visible symbols of a recognition that strengthens
the intellectuars feeling of belongmg."" Huters* analysis of the internal
and external pressures on writers to support the change of government
shows how the ground was prepared for them. It must also be kept in
mind how difficult it was after 1949 to refuse to cooperate actively with
the authorities. However, to the younger urban generation of the 1960s,
the older writers could seem simply part of the establishment, enjoying the
privileges of the elite and unconcerned with the problems of the rest of
society. They had even failed in their primary duty as writers. The quality
of the works produced by these writers or of the works whose production
they supervised and praised was mediocre to downright bad. There was
hardly a single work of written literature produced in the 1950s and early
1960s that had a genuine daim to literary distinction. The performing arts
fared slightly better, though in general the same perceptions could apply.
(Some figures who represented the older tradition, such as Hou Baolin,
still held the respect and affection of the older urban audience.)

The Party's welcome to writers and performers in 1949 had its built-in
reservations, just as had the artists' acceptance of the welcome. Despite the
two groups' mutual distrust and the ups and downs of the 1950s and early
1960s, it was not the Party nor the writers and performers who pulled the
other down: both elites fell from grace together, and when they regained
power in the 1970s, they did so, again, together.

The Audience: Homogeuizatton of High and Popular Culture
One of the most notable features about the literary and performing arts
in contemporary China is that the cultural authorities have insisted on
postulating a single, mass, homogeneous audience for cultural products. In
traditional Chinese culture, as m other advanced traditional cultures
throughout the world, at least three levels of audience were tacitly ac-
knowledged. In Chma these were: the elite level of the highly educated
who, ideally, acted simultaneously or successively as scholars, poets, and
government officials; the low level of the illiterate peasantry, whose cul^
ture was largely oral and localized; and an intermediate level of the semi-
educated, who lived in urban areas and enjoyed a variety of oral and
written literary forms. The products associated with each of these levels
can be labeled high, intermediate, and low. To some extent, they can also
be distinguished by genre: at the elite level, the favored genres are poetry
and nonfictional prose written in the literary language {wefiyan)\ at the
intermediate level, short stories and novels in the vernacular (baihua),

" Czeskw Milosz, The Capthfe Mind (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1980), p. 9.

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opera, popular songs, and storytelling; at the low level, folksong and
village opera, including various i>erforming genres such as yangge (a kind
of folk theater) in Shaanxi and bangzi (clapper opera) in Shanxi, Shaanxi,
and other areas of northern and central China, all performed in local
dialects {tudihua). The low and intermediate levels can be jointly described
as popular.

Attempts to distinguish these two or three levels of cultural products
based on their intrinsic features have been inconclusive.^"* Even the most
obvious distinction, the three levels of language, is far from forming an
absolute criterion. Vernacular expressions can he found in some kinds of
literary poetr>', and Uterary poetry can be found in vernacular fiction and
opera; local dialects cannot be sharply distinguished from the standard
vernacular on linguistic or literary grounds and may be utilized in novels
whose audiences reach beyond the given locality. In regard to subjea
matter, although popular-level characters do not as a rule play major roles
in high literature, elite characters are very common in popular literature;
and there are fundamental similarities of theme and philosophy that reach
across all levels. The myth that popular literature is structurally less com-
plex than elite literature was demolished long ago. Looking from the
genres back to their audiences, we find considerable overlap, as elites
(unofficially) enjoy fiction and opera, and storytellers roam between city
and countryside. A similar overlap exists between the writers and com-
posers of the cultural products. Finally, there are numerous examples of a
low or intermediate form, such as the vernacular short story or some kinds
of song, being reworked by authors of a higher cultural level for an elite
audience. Not only can it be said that cultural communication spanned the
social and esthetic differences between high and popular levels but that, in
spite of the readily discei nable extremes, there was a vast common ground
shared by traditional culture as a whole.

The distinaion between high and popular culture can shed light on the
whole culture of a given society, yet to define what the terms mean is
extremely difficult. A full investigation would have to examine the social

^* For a finely elaborated but concise outline of the three streams and of their interaction
in iSction and drama, see Patrick Hanan, "The Development of Fiction and Drama," in
Raymond Dawson, ed.. The l.t'i^.uv of Chitia (Oxford: Cl.irendon Press, 1964), esp. pp.
116-119, 143. For a more detailed study sec Hanan, I he Uitnese Short Story: Studies in
Dating, Authorship, and ComposUiou (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1973),
esp. chaps. 8 and 9 (pp. 170—214). For the discussion in this section I am also deeply
indchtc J '.o rhe seminar and conference on high and popular cukure conducted in 1978/1979
at Harvard by I'.unck D. H.uian, Howard S. Hibhett, and Betii.unin I. Schwartz. In particu-
lar, 1 have benehted greatly from the papers and comments by Milena Dolezeiova-
Velingerova, Perry Link, and Edwin McCldlan as well as from those by Hanan, Hibbett, and
Schwartz. At the time of writing, the proceedings of the seminar and conference have not
been published.

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backgrounds of authors and audiences, the production and distribution of
cuhural products, their critical reception, and the author's intentions and
anticipated audience (as inferred from the text). Our ignorance of most of
these factors in contemporary China seriously hampers our attempts to
construct such a well-rounded picture, although the essays contained in
this volume, by beginning such an attempt, afford valuable clues.

Even if we adopt the simplest criterion for distinguishing between high
and popular culture — namely, the social composition of the audience —
there still remain numerous problems. As Benjamin I. Schwartz has
pointed out, it is simply too crude to identify high culture as the culture of
the ruling class and low culture as the culture of the masses. Even in
traditional China, where during major nonforeign dynasties the ruling elite
was as nearly as possible equivalent to the educated elite, the bearers of the
high culture were not necessarily the spokesmen for the ruling dass but
may well at times have been in opposition to it. The ruling class, for its
part, may be more comfortable with middle-level or popular than with
high culture, as is frequently the case in Western societies.^' In contempo-
rary China, two groups lay claim to elite status: the political elite and the
educated elite. Each inherited some values of the traditional gentry and
each espoi]sed some modern Western values, but in either case the mix
produced a different result. Culturally, it seems that the political elite, or
parts of it, preferred traditional Chinese elite forms and popular forms
such as literary poetry and Chmese opera, while the educated elite pre-
ferred westernized forms such as new poetry and spoken drama [huajii).
The cultural authorities within the political elite generally shared the edu-
cation and tastes of the educated elite, and so had divided loyalties when it
came to formulating cultural policies and to allocating resources. (During
the Cultural Revolution, they were replaced by Party-trained intellectuals
and populist leaders who did not share the older intellectuals' cultural
values.)

It is also necessary to distinguish the traditional popular audiences from
the mass audience today. The popular audience in the past either paid for
its entertainment and enjoyed the privilege of choice, or else, especially in
rural areas, created its own entertainment. It was subject to pressure to
conform to Confucian and other traditional values, and at times its enter-
tainments were severely censored, but in the countryside effective control
by the state was limited. The mass audience in contemporary China exer-
cises very litde choice, either over what it pays for or over what it is
allowed to create for itself. Its choice is circumscribed by an authority that
is more concerned with what the masses should have than with what they

" From a statement by Benjamin I. Schwartz circulated at the seminar on high and
popular culture, Harvard University, 1978.

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want; an'd at times of political crisis, the range of offerings becomes very
limited mdeed. The situation in Western countries is somewhat compara-
ble in that a mass audience, whose choices are controlled by a relatively
small and centralized group interested in appealing to the lowest common
denominator, is replacing the traditional popular audience. The Western
mass audience, however, operates in an open society and has more options
both within and outside the mass culture.

The fact of the Party's control over both author and audience also
interferes with the standard distinction between a creator-oriented culture
(high culture) and a user-oriented culture (popular culture). Neither cate-
gory is really applicable in a controlled society. Such a culture cannot be
fully creator-oriented, since some functions of the creator (e.g., the choice
of content) have been taken over by a third element, the Party. Nor can the
culture be fully user-oriented, since the audience's preference may be ig-
nored by the same third element, which prefers to promote its own
values.^^ The existence of such problems is not a reason to abandon the
high/popular distinction; rather, it suggests fruitful new lines of research
into the whole cultural scene of contemporary China.

An observer surveying the range of literary products in China, both
written and oral, at the beginning of the twentieth century would find their
differences more apparent than their similarities. Some May Fourth writers
were therefore ambivalent about traditional culture. Despite the general
atmosphere of iconoclasm, there was still a strong tendency, at least in
theory, among the left and liberal sections of the movement to exempt
popular culture from the scorn they poured on the classical tradition. It
was iconoclastic enough to declare, as did Hu Shi, that the "little tradi-
tion" was the true cultural mainstream of China, while classical literature
was a mere parasite or an empty shell. Nevertheless, in practice few writers
consciously borrowed from the little tradition; both in their creative and
their critical writing they preferred to choose from among array of
Western models. .Most of these Western models were themselves addressed
to a highly literate audience, although in the West by the late nineteenth
and in the twentieth century, improved and near-universal education had
encouraged a considtr.ihlf nurging of elite and nonclitc audiences.

The May Fourth writers based their hopes for a national literature on a
similar universalizing of education in China that would produce a similar
merging of audience levels. In their time, this was starting to happen; they
drew their audience from both elite and intermediate levels. In absolute
terms, this new composite audience was smaller than either of the audi-
ences it drew from, but this was — or so they hoped — ^merely a temporary

^ Perry Link advanced an argument along these lines at the conference on high and
popular culnue, Harvard University, 1979.

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BONNIE S. McDOUGALL

phenomenon. As Guo Moruo remarked, his task was to write as best he
could, and it was the task of the educators to create an audience for him.

The turmoil of the twentieth century allowed no such hopeful future to
materialize. Although compulsory and universal education was a policy of
die Nationalist government, it did not reach the mass of the peasantry in
the vast interior. The solemn self-consdousness of the May Fourth writers
placed another barrier between them and their potential audience: it is
hard to think of even a reform-minded student reader of the 1920s being
content with an unrelieved diet of May Fourth writing. Apart from sheer
lack of literacy, several factors stood between these writers and the na-
tional audience they sought: the reformist or revolutionary nature of their
messages, the unfamiliarity of the literary conventions they adopted, and
their perceived lack of technical skill.

The May Fourth writers recognized by the early 1930s that their adop-
tion of a highly westernized idiom had placed a barrier between themselves
and a wider audience. What separated them even more from all levels of
traditional writers and performers was their inability to entertain or intrigue
their audiences with the kind of technical skills that dazzled the audiences of
traditional storytelling, opera, and literary and folk poetry. Many of the
Ma\ Fourth writers, in fact, were extremely interested in developing techni-
cal skills, and some were notably successful in doing so: Lu Xun, Wen
Yiduo, Mao Dun, and Cao Yu come to mind. Others mav have failed to
reach such levels of achievement hut were nonetheless seeking new modes of
expression. To an inexperienced audience, however, an unfamiliar tech-
nique often seems mere lack of technique. The Shanghai audience that
booed Shaw's Mrs Warren s Profession off the stage was only able to per-
ceive its lack of traditional stage effects. Similarly, the May Fourth writers
failed to find formal structures of interest to them in popular literature. In
the late 1930s and the 194()s, the high tide of patriotism that swept the
country helped to break down cross-generic prejudices, particularly the
May Fourth writers' prejudice against the popular arts. At the same time,
twenty years of reformist education was beginning to produce a wider
middle-level audience.^ By the 1950s, some success had been achieved in
creating a new literary language intermediate between the westernized May
Fourth mode and the informal rural or local style developed in the Yan*an
period. This was a very important step toward audience homogeneity.

Further progress, in the 1950s and 1960s, toward universal education
and national unity was countered by the conflicts between special groups
that the stabler conditions of the new society inevitably produced. The
narrow target audience of **workers, peasants and soldiers'* that Mao
defined in Yan'an for Communist writers was now, theoretically, the audi-

^ I am grateful to T. D. Huters for suggesting this interpretarion of the 194Qs.

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I Ht MRS I I HRtt DECADES 28S

cncc for all writers. However, in his revised version of the "Talks" (1953),
Mno redefined his terms slightly to subtly broaden the audience: in several
places, ''workers, peasants and soldiers" became "masses of workers,
peasants and soldiers" or "laboring people" or, again, "workers, peasants,
soldiers and popular masses" became simply "popular masses.""^ By 1956,
Lu Dingyi's Hundred Flowers speech had redefined the aim of literature as
"to serve the working people as a whole, intellectuals included**; in 1960,
Zhou Yang could ask, rhetorically, ''Whom should literature and art serve
if not the laboring masses of workers and peasants, and their intelleau-
als?**; and in 1961, a People's Daily editorial attributed to Zhou Yang
stated that: ''Hie whole people {quanmin) with the workers, peasants and
soldiers as the main body within the people's democratic united front are
the audience for our artistic and literary services and other work.**^'

Widening the audience range was a code for the redevelopment of audi-
ence hierarchies. Both Chinese and Western writers have noted that the
quality of literary works rose in periods of relaxation such as 1956-1957
and 1959—1962, when an audience including intellectuals was permitted.^
Welcome as this broadening was to the intellectuals, it dismayed those
whose concern was for the cultural enrichment, along correct political
lines, of the masses. Thus each period of relaxation was followed by a
countertrend that refocused attention on the masses (the nation's cultural
resources were too limited to focus on both audiences simultaneously).
During the antirightist campaign, surveys of low- in come groups revealed
that the great majority of the people was not reached by the literature and
art emanating from the center; shortly after, the amateur-writing and
mass-poetry movements were launched. Again, in 1962-1965, reader re-
search was carried out in the villages, and in 1966, the national press
demanded that literature address an audience of workers, peasants, and
soldiers/' A central policy of the Cultural Revolution was to reduce the

^ See my Mao Zedong's Talks at the Yan'on Conference on Literature and Art (Ana
Arbor: Universir>' of Michigan Center for Chinese Studies, 1981), appendix 1.

Lu Ting-yi [Lu Dinpyi], "Let Flowers of Many Kinds Blossom, Diverse Schools of
Thought Contend!" (Pekuig: Foreign Languages Press, 1957), pp. 19-20; Chou Vang [Zhou
Yang], "The Path of Socialist Literature and Art in China** (Peking: Foreign Languages Press,
1960), p. 8; Renrnin ribao, 15 March 1961, editorial Attributed to Zhou Yang by Yao
Wenyuan in his "Ping fan'gemting liangmianpai Zhou Yang" (On the two-faced couiitt r revo-
lutionary Zhou YangJ, Hong qi (1967), 1, pp. 14-36, translated in Chinese Literature
(1967), 3, pp. 24-71.

* Huang, Heroes and Villains, p. vii; China Handbodt Editorial Committee, Ofina
Handbook Series: Literature and the Arts (Peking: Foreign Languages Press, 1983).

Ragvald, y.io W'enyiun, p. 106 and n. 15; Huang, Heroes and Villains, pp. 323-327.
For the Cultural Revolution rhetoric, see, for instance, the speech hy jiang Qing at the 28
November 1966 rally in Peking of 2U,U00 workers in the field of literature and art, reported
in Hong qi 15 (13 December 1966), pp. 5-13, and translated in Chinese Literature (1967) 2,
pp. 3-17.

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target audit ncc to its Yan'an prototype by prohibiting outright the publi-
cation, circulation, and performance of material not specifically designed
for that audience. Again, Mao's poems were a significant exception.

The creation of a worker-peasant-soldier culture was a task whose over-
whelming complexity was hardly envisioned in the early post-Uberation
days. For want of an alternative, die cultural authorities and producers were
drawn mostly from the May Fourth writers and artists. As Huters points
out, they were hardly suited for the task, and as the new group of writers
and performers was trained under the guidance of the old, it tended to
assimilate similar attitudes. Amateur writers, encouraged by handsome re-
muneration beyond their normal wages, aspired toward professional status;
nonprofessional products were the objea of professional criticism and audi-
ence indifference. Even the Party's own cultural authorities were ambivalent
about the egalitarianism implicit in the Party*s policy on mass literature and
art. However, under pressure from the populist elements in the leadership,
several more or less effective devices were experimented with, as described
in the essays in this volume. Many of these were direct or indirect borrow-
ings from traditional literature and art.

A new literature and art gradually emerged, therefore, in the 1950s and
1960s, which were able to carry the Party's message in a way compatible
with the mass audience's literary and artistic expectations. Among the
devices used were: the adoption of formal stylistic traits, such as the story-
teller narrative voice; the incorporation of dialect and colloquial expres-
sions into narrative as well as dialogue; the creation of heroic models
rather than the complex middle characters; the central and heroic position
given to workers, peasants, soldiers, and forceful female characters; the
substitution of traditional "realism" for May Fourth naturalism or critical
realism and of mimetic, representational description for verbal, presenta-
tional description; the avoidance of anvthing too overtly intelligent, imagi-
native, or experimental in favor of the plain solemnity of ritualistic cul-
ture; the insistence on overt explanation and the absence of ambiguity;
and the elevation of the performing arts to equal respectability with writ-
ten literature.

Most of these devices could be learned by studying the traditional popu-
lar culture, and, since in the 1950s and 1960s such researdi was under-
taken, we may assume that the cultural authorities and producers con-
sciously applied it. The presentational barrier between producers and
audiences having thus been lowered, or partially lowered, the all-impor-
tant political and social message of the contents had presumably become
more palatable to the mass audience.

At the same time, the very fact that popular literature and the perform-
ing arts were now subjects of academic research helped to make them
more respectable in the eyes of intellectuals. Knowledge of their complex

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287

structures may also have contributed to their rise in status. Moreover,
several decades of exposure to Western literature and w esternized C-hincsc
literature had by now made the whole range of traditional Chinese culture
seem more homogenous — Peking opera and classical poetry no longer
seemed worlds apart. Finally, the re-evaluation of social hierarchies made
it permissible, even desirable, for intellectuals to admit their liking for
certain kinds of popular culture such as the traditional theater/^ hi short,
not only did borrowings from the traditional written and performing arts
make the new arts more acceptable to the masses; the process involved in
the borrowing made the traditional popular arts more acceptable to the
intellectuals. The populist goal of achieving a unified national audience did
not seem to be beyond reach.

The Cultural Product: Literature and Performing Arts
During the 1930s and 1940s, the literature of the May Fourth move-
ment had established itself as the newly emerging elite literature, edging
the old classical literature away from the center though not off the stage
altogether. Its elite nature was tacitly acknowledged by the Communist
government when in 1949 it appointed the top May Fourth writers to
positions of social leadership, published their works in collected editions,
and imposed social functions and duties on other May Fourth writers.
Most of the new fiction, drama, and poetry of the 1950s and early 196()s
fit firmly within the May Fourth tradition. Zhou Erfu's Shaw^haide zao-
chen [Morning in Shanghai, 1958) and Yang Mo's Qiugchunzhi ge [Song
of youth, 1958! were obviously successors to Mao Dun's Ziye [Midnight,
1933] and Ba Jin's /m [Family, 1931 J with the added political interpola-
tions required by the new government. Flowever, this modified form of the
May Fourth tradition, while dominant, was not the sole contributor to
national publications or to the stage. The native classical and popular
traditions challenged its monopoly, and oral literature, with its new re-
spectability as a popular art, similarly challenged the dominance ot written
Hteraturc.

The encouragement of popular tradition was essentially a political tac-

My own fairly extensive theater-going in Peking in the etrly 1980s gave me the

impression of an interesting hierarchy nmong theater-goers. Kunqu performances seem to
attract students, intellectuals, and the better-ott, while the audience for Hebei hangzi is
obviously from the lower classes. The audience for Peking opera, especially when a famous
performer is featured, is of an only slighdy lower level than the kmqu audience, and pingu
audiences seem to be of a slightly higher level than h.ingzi audiences. Spoken drama attracts a
different sort of audience, obviously younger th.iii the others. Kunqu audiences also include
younger people, but hangzt audiences are generally rather older. Xtangshoi}^ in the better
theaters attract a mixed audience; daytime storytelling in humbler surroundings attracts what
seem to be the elderly and the unemployed. It is likely that a similar situation existed in the
1950s and early 1960s.

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tic, whose groundwork was laid during the Yan'an period of 1942—1947.
The May Fourth niovcincnt and its late Qing predecessor had prepared the
wav for a renewed interest in Chinese popular culture, and their adoption
of the vernacular novel and short story as their main form of literary
expression was an important precedent. On the whole, however, May
Fourth writers felt that they had little to learn from popular tradition in
the important areas of style and structure. Taking their cue from Western
studies of folklore, the May Fourth intellectuals tended to approach folk
literature along anthropological and psychological lines. Researchers and
writers such as Fu Sinian and Shen Congwen made valuable academic
studies and collections of folk literature in the 1930s, but folk elements
were used in creative writing only as embellishments (as Mao sarcastically
put it), rather than as living models for contemporary adaptation. Having
rejected the dead weight of one native tradition, the May Fourth writers
were not about to be saddled with another; instead, they turned toward
the outside world. The debate on **national forms" in the late 1930s
showed that many Party intellectuals were equally resistant.

When Mao directed writers to adopt folk forms, he was probably more
moved by political than by literary considerations; the forms he enumer-
ated in the "Talks" were not conspicuously noted for their intrinsically
literary or traditional nature. The immediate result of the "Talks" was the
redirection of May Fourth writers into research on folk literature and art
and the encouragement of the younger, more tlexihle writers and com-
posers to produce literature and art based on folk material. At the same
time, however, and going beyong Mao's actual directives (which he had
addressed to professionals), members ot the folk themselves began to pro-
duce new works in line with the spirit of the directives. Some of these early
attempts, such as the new yangi^c discussed by David Holm in this volume,
hail few literary pretensions; others, such as the work of Zhao Shuli and Li
ji. probably surpassed the expectations of the cultural leadership, creating
a sense of euphoria that persisted into the early postT.iberation period.

At the opening of this new stage, the existing forms of traditional popu-
lar art were collected for preservation and new material was produced on
their model. This reformist attempt was not successful at all levels. Tradi-
tional opera, for instance, remained resistant to internal reform as it had in
the 1920s and 1930s. The lack of information about its complex, unwrit-
ten rules of composition defeated the reforms of outsiders. The most that
could be done was to sift through the repertoire for those pieces whose
messages were not too blatantly incongruous with the official goals of the
new society. Especially in the first few years, the policy of New Democracy
allowed traditional opera to continue as a major form of entertainment:
the need for national unity temporarily overrode narrower political
demands.

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In fiction, the new folk elements introduced by Zhao Shuli and used
successfully by other writers of the early Communist period seemed to
gradually lose their freshness and charm as writers were drawn to the vari-
ety of sophisticated techniques from the West. This powerful attraction
enticed Zhao Shuli, for one, away from the native elements to a more
neutral, "internationar style. The model of the Soviet Union was particu-
larly imporunt in the 1950s in enhancing the prestige of **socialist realism,**
interpreted as Western-style realism at the service of centrally (externally)
determined goals/^ A simplified form of folk poetry was popularized, which
was actually a simplified form of classical literary poetry, but only a few,
more ambitious, attempts were made to emulate the more structurally com-
plex and independent forms of folksong and narrative art. An exception was
xiangsheng, an urban performing art involving one or more performers in a
lively comedic narrative or dialogue (see the essay by Perry Link in this
volume). Film was strongly associated with the May Fourth elite culture and
remained so, with the appropriate concessions made to the new political
directives (see the essay by Wai-fong Loh above).

The temporary eclipse of Yan'an populism in the arts soon after Libera-
tion was due to several factors. First, the inheritance of state power made
the Party newly conscious of the centuries-old traditions of the Chinese
state, including the glories of the elite arts. In his revised edition of the
Yan'an "Talks" (1953), Mao accordingly inserted the following sentence:
"We should take over the rich legacy and excellent traditions in literature
and art that have been handed down from past ages in C hina and foreign
countries, but our aim must still be to serve the popular masses." Simi-
larly, he altered "the old forms of the feudal class and the bourgeoisie" to
read "the literary and artistic forms of past ages," and "absorb these
things" became "take over all the excellent tradition in literature and art."
Secondly, as the first quotation hints, the powerful influence of the
U.S.S.R. also shifted attention away from the native tradition. .Although a
certain amount of Western literature still ^irciiLued in China during the
1950s, Soviet literature was the main channel through uhich Chinese
writers were able to maintain contact with the Western literature that had
dominated the Chinese literary world in the first half of the twentieth
century. Thirdly, the writers, artists, and Party intellectuals who consti-
tuted the bureaucracies also felt the mantle of China*s imperial glory on

*^ At the i960 ACFLAC Congress, most of the works singled out for praise "came not

from the popular entertainers of the st>le of Chao Shu-Ii [Zhao Shuli|, but from writers
schdoltj ill the carHer leftist traditions": Cyril Birch, "The Particle of Art," in Birch, eti.,
Couwutnist Chnii'sc Liter jtun\ p. S*. For the changing emphasis m the work ot Zhao Shuli
and others in the 1950s, see Cyril Birch, "The Persistence ot Traditional Forms," in Birch,
ed.» Communisi Chinese Literature^ pp. 77-83. For the importance of Soviet socialist real-
ism» see Fokkema, Literary Doctrine, pp. 109-118.

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their shoulders. Both populism and the May Fourth tradition seemed ir-
relevant to those inheriting the grand literati tradition.

Not all of the Party leaders watched this trend with approval, and
reaction was mixed when in early 1957 Mao allowed his classical-style
poetry to inaugurate the new periodical Shikan [Poetry journal]. His mo-
tives are not entirely clear: he may have felt impelled to assert his authority
over the cultural bureaucracy or he may have wished to encourage older
and non-Party intellectuals (as opposed to the May Fourth figures in the
Party establishment). Modestly disclaiming his own value as a cultural
model, Mao publicly urged others not to foUow his example. However, in
the succeeding years, in restricted and private speeches or letters, he made
his contempt for May Fourth or **new** poetry very clear.^ It is hard not
to believe that these forcefully expressed opinions circulated more widely
at the time, and publication of classicaNstyle poetry in books and journals
was common from the late 1950s on. At the same time, the poetry cam-
paign of 1958 inaugurated a new drive to encourage folk poetry.''^ The
national anthology of poems, culled from the millions gathered across the
whole country, was restricted to just 300 poems, as in the ancient Shijing
[Book of songsj; the introduction by Zhou Yang and Guo Moruo explic-
itly compares the two works. The relationship between the classical and
folk traditions was thereby introduced into popular circulation, as it had
already been incorporated into the discourse of academic literary studies.

The preservation and study of the national theatrical heritage was also a
central part of the Hundred Flowers campaign to attract the support of
intellectuals.^'' Apart from Mao's personal initiatives on behalf of classical
and folk poetry, the attention of the literary heritage movement after the
Eighth Congress turned toward various forms of popular theater: spoken
drama, regional operas, Peking opera, and qnyi, the minor performing
arts. The formerly distinct native traditions became merely different as-
pects of a common culture, especially once such traditionally ambiguous
forms as the vernacular novel and Peking opera became important bridges
between the traditional cultures.

Despite the discreet though firm support Mao provided, from the Hun-
dred Flowers through the Great Leap Forward, and despite the lip service
the cultural establishment paid to popular culture, the new generation of
writers, including diose from the masses, showed a distinct preference for

^ For Mao's views on poetty, see my "Poems, Poets, and Poetry 1976: An Exercise in die
Typology of Modem Chinese Literature," Contemporary China 2, 4 (Winter 1978): 79-80,

96-97.

*^ See Ragvdld, Vtio Wenyujtt, pp. 114-117; Fokkcma, Literary Doctrine, pp. 202-205,
208; Schram, Mao Tse-tung Unrehearsed, pp. 123-124; Goldman, Literary Dissent, pp.
243-271.

^ Fokkema, Literary Doctrine, pp. 197, 205.

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the more glamorous international style. The case of the modern drama
{wennutiiixi, literally "civilized theater") or spoken drama illustrates how
the international style was employed in a nonpopular performing art, by-
passing the genuinely popular pcrtornung arts such as Peking opera. The
modern drama had been the slowest of the new westernized forms to win
popular acceptance, even in the cities. Although it first appeared in China
several years before the May Fourth movement, and a second attempt was
made to popularize it in die early 1920s, modem drama did not achieve its
first genuine success until the mid-1930s. Its greatest acceptance came only
under the very special circumstances of occupied Shanghai during the war
(see the essay by Edward Gunn in this volume), where the two factors that
seemed to weigh most heavily in its favor were the absence of a competing
performing art (i.e., of traditional opera and the cinema) and its incorpora-
tion of elements from opera. In the 1950s and early 1960s, the co-exis-
tence of modem drama and traditional opera epitomized the tendency
toward cultural diversity that undermined the national goal of a unitary
mass culture. On the one hand was opera, a traditional form highly popu-
lar at different audience levels but highly resistant to revolutionary mod-
ernization (i.e., to the introduction of new character types as vehicles for
the new political messages). On the other hand was the drama, a modern-
ized form patronized almost exclusively by the urban intelligentsia and
obviously designed to transmit a modern revolutionary content. The rural
yangge movement, so important in the 1940s, almost disappeared from the
national stage/^

After the relative relaxation of the period from 1959 to 1962, Mao
again attempted, as in 1957, to assert his cultural leadership by allowing
the publication of a new batch of his classical-style poems in 1962. This
rime they were published in Roimiu wcuxuc [People's literature], a maga-
zme with a much larger circulation than Poetry journal. I he following
year, Mao commenced his arrack on the Ministry {)f Culture, and the
movement for new revolutionary operas on contemporary themes was
launched in 1963.'^'* Mao was continuing his two-pron^tnl in.Kk on the
Party and on the state cultural establishment, using classical-style poetry to
discredit the bare "modern" style (>f the establishment's luw [''otiiA and
attacking the persistence of unreformed popular culture to discredit what-
ever populist tendencies were part of establishment policy.

For a concise summary of the three trends in Chinese theater in the 1940s, see Jack

Chen, The Chinese Theater (New York: Roy, 1948). For a more general survey of twentieth-
century China, see Colin Mackerras, The Chtncic Ihcatre in Modem Times, from 1840 to
the Present Day (London: Ihames and Hudson, 1975).

^ For a description of skirmishes in the theater world in the early 1960s, see Chen, Inside
the Cultural Revolution, pp. 135-140, 155-164.

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THE "GREAT RETURN": THE CULTURAL REVOLUTION
AND ITS AFITRMA I H (1966-1976)

Misinformation about the Cultural Revolution is still a serious problem
in the understanding of contemporary China. Now anxious to discredit it,
the Chinese themselves are making the same kind of errors about it as
Western observers. It is common to hear from both Chinese and Western
sources that the sole literary or artistic product of those years was "eight
model operas". There has also been a failure to understand the reform of
Peking opera and its relation to the Chinese tradition. 1 he following sec-
tion is an attempt to set the record straight. We must Hrst distinguish
between the three phases of the ten-year period. It consisted of the Cul-
tural Revolution proper, 1966-1969; the transition, 1969-1971; and the
recovery, 1972-1976.^'

The cultural products of the Cultural Revolution proper fall into three
categories: the model revolutionary theatrical works {yanghanxi), together
with similar model an works such as the "Rent Collection Courtyard**
sculptural tableaux, wall posters, and oil pamtmgs; .Mao's classical-style
poems; and a small number of undistinguished works of written literature
and minor performing arts, mostly by new or anonymous authors. Of
these three categories, the first two had existed before the Cultural Revolu-
tion, at least in some form; the third category, original with the period, did
not survive its aftermath. These products were forced on the population at
large: there was no alternative to them. This does not necessarily mean,
however, that they were disliked. At least three or four of the original five
model operas won some measure of genuine popularity.

Model Theatrical Works
The history of the model theatrical works is problematic, and their
future uncertain. The earliest and most famous of the works were per-
formed at the Festival of Peking Operas on Contemporary Themes in
1964, as ^^revolutionary Peking operas on contemporary themes" igeming
xiandai jingfu; "contemporary** here means, roughly, twentieth-century).
All were based on pre-existing texts, from novels, films, or local operas,
and had worker, peasant, and soldier heroes and heroines. Zhtqu Weihu-
shan [Taking Tiger Mountain by strategy] was based on an episode from a
novel about the Civil War, which was itself a loose borrowing trom a
traditional vernacular novel. Shajuhani^ and Houi^ Jcui^ ji [The red lan-
tern] were based on Shanghai operas. Some of these works were selected as
yangban, "models," for future attempts, since their creation was a bold

For information on cultural conditions in this decade I am greatly indebted to Anders
Hansson, cultural attache at the Swedish Embassy in Peking, 1971-1973. In particular, 1
have relied heavily on his unpublished paper, "Transplanting Model Operas'* (1977).

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new experiment in the production o^ written scripts tor a previously un-
written medium. By the end of 1966, eight "revolutionary model theatrical
works" [geming yatighanxi, or yangbunxi for short), as they were now
known, formed the official canon,*" (Since only five of the eight were
actually operas, it is more correct, if cumbersome, to describe them as
"theatrical works.")

By 1976, these eight works had expanded into eighteen, many of them
variants of the original eight/* The concept of "model work" developed as
local opera forms began to be encouraged later in the Cultural Revolution.
As early as 1969, when the Cultural Revolution proper was winding
down, work started on the "transplanting" {yizhi) or adapting of the
model Peking operas into local operas, as with the Cantonese opera ver-
sion of Shajiabang (see the essay by Bell Yung in this volume). In addition,
new local operas were produced and old ones rewritten in the spirit of the
model operas. In 1974 and 1975, no fewer than forty-eight regional forms
were revived through the transplantation of model operas, including such
widely differing kinds as the old ""classical" kunqu (or kunju), the rather
frivolous Hunan huaguxi ("flower drum opera"), and opera forms of such
national minorities as Uighurs and Tibetans. There were good reasons for
reviving local opera. Although Peking opcr.i is the most prestigious and
widespread form of Chinese oi>era today, the local styles enjoy great local
popularity, especially in areas where the Peking-based "common lan-
guage" is not readily understood. Local opera was, therefore, a potentially
superior vehicle for propaganda and also helped satisfy the more diversi-
fied cultural needs of the early 1970s. Nevertheless, just as in the creation
of the model operas, transplanting, creating, or rewriting local operas
involved many difficulties, which were aired in the national press m the
earlv and mid-1970s. Some of the later model Peking operas were them-
selves intluenced by regional forms, such as Dujuanshan [Azalea Moun-
tain], which uses responsorial singing, a characteristic of Sichuan and
Chaozhou opera.

The concept of model works was discredited with the fall of the Ciang
of Four in 1976. However, some, if not all, of the operas themselves will
undoubtedly survive; some were staged in part or in whole in the late

As listed in Rcmnin ribao, ^' Dca-inher 1966, p. 4. I hcy were performed us a croup in
May \'^b~ tor the twenty-Htth anniversary of the Yan'an Fonini arid released on gramophone
records for National Day, October 1 ot the same year. A statement to that ettect in Chinese
Literature, (1967), 12, notes that the records were '^produced with the strong support oi die
Cultural Revolutioii Group under the Party's Central Committee" (p. 22). For information
on the term xaniih.in and the earlv history of \\in{;hjnxi, see Hiia-Yuan I.i Mowry, Yafi-pau
hsi: New Theater in Chtna (Berkeley: l'niversir\ ot ( alitornia C enter for Chinese Studies,
1973). For a list of the model works, see licll 'b ung's article \n this volume.

" Information on yanghanxi in the following paragraphs is from Hansson, "Transplant-
ing Model Operas."

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1970s. One of the major cnncisms of the model works was that rhcy
monopolized the stage; this monopoly has now come to an end and, after
a decent interval ot iwne, the operas may regain some popularity. Another
problem was their small number, due probably to the serious problems the
writers, composers, and performers ^ced in adapting to modem condi-
tions a form so tightly bound to the past. Probably the most serious
criticism concerned the extension of the model concept into nontheatrical
genres, so that poetry and fiction, for example, were expected to follow
the theories developed for theatrical works.^' The most controversial of
these theories was that of the ''three prominences'* {san tuchu)^ which took
shape during the late 1960s. At the time of the fall of Lin Biao, the theory
changed slightly with the general de-emphasis on genius and individual
heroism, but the main point was still the same: in characterization and
presentation, the most heroic and most positive aspects should be the
primary focus of attention.^^ In opera, this meant the highlighting of exag-
gerated characters; what was lost in subtlety was made up for in bold
theatrical effects, action, and spectacle. The development of new role ster-
eotypes, after their initial novelty had worn off, allowed the audience and
performers to connntrate on the traditional skills of singing and stage
movement — presumably contrary to the intentions of the cultural authori-
ties. On the whole, the theory of the three prominences was not out of
keeping with the spirit of traditional Chinese theatre.

The model nature of yanghauxi was established by the publication of
"dertnitive" versions in Hong qi [Red flag], the organ of the Chinese
C^ommunisi Party Central Committee. The script of liger Moioitain was
published first, in November 1969. Books recorded the script, musical
score, detailed descriptions of costumes and stage properties, stage direc-
tions, and so on, intlicatmg that the established model was to be followed
with little deviation. Ihis activity marked a radical departure from the
unscripted and performer-oriented staging of traditional opera. The ap-
proved stage versions were as a rule performed by one of the major Peking
opera troupes of Peking or Shanghai. The film versions that followed in
the 1970s tended also to follow closely the stage versions, even to using
the same props.

The main Western elements in the model works were the semirealistic,
semisymbolic, and elaborate stage settings, the Western-style orchestration,
and Western musical instruments (these instruments, including the piano,
were considered more forceful and better suited to express contemporary
heroism than were the traditional Chinese instruments). Some gestures asso-

" See, for example, articles in Shikan ( 1976), 4, pp. 15-16, 22-25, 25-27; (1976), 5, pp.
86-87; (1976), 6, pp. 86-87; (1976), 7, pp. 87-89; (1976), 8, pp. 75-76; (1976), 9, pp.
82-85.

Beverley Lum, **A Report on die Principle of the 'Three Prominences* " (unpublished
manuscript).

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dated with the international prt)lctarian movement, such as the workers'
cleiuhed-fist salute, were also mcorporated into the stage movements of the
Pekmg operas. Other model works, such as the ballets, the symphonic suite
Shajiabang, and the "Gangqm xiezouqu 'Huanghc' " 1 1 he Yellow River
piano concerto] owe much more to Western or international styles.

The choice of traditional opera as the chief subject of reform was a
positive contribution to narrowing the gap between high and popular
culture. Although Peking opera retained its central position as die original
and most widely seen form of model opera, the local operas came much
closer to it and to each other, thereby losing much of their provincial
nature; similarly, ktoiqu probably lost its **classical** flavor. When model
works were staged in more remote areas, it was sometimes difficult or even
impossible to recreate the model exaaly, as rural and provincial conditions
continued to lag behind the larger cities. An attempt was made to over-
come this rural deprivation by sending dty opera companies on tour for
periods of up to six months. From one point of view, which local audi-
ences and the cultural historian might share, the narrowing of the gap
between regional forms is destructive. If homogeneity is the price of survi-
val, is survival still desirable? On the other hand, even if the model theatri-
cal works and their regional variations turn out in the long run to be an
experiment that failed, the boldness of the undertaking and the work of its
creators and performers can still evoke admiration.

The Classical Revival
The classical revival of the late 1960s and early 1970s was again stimu-
lated by the publication of Mao's classical-style poems. By 196<S, the Mao
Zhuxi shici (Poems of C^hairman Mao] had a circulation of 92, 000, ()()()
copies.'' Although this did not quite match the record set by Mao Zhuxi
ynlu [Quotations from Chairman Mao, popularly known in the West as the
"little red book'"] or Mao Zedong xuanji (Selected works of Mao Zedong],
the poems' mipact must still have been immense. As classical verse, these
poems are not particularly obscure in language or allusion, but they are
ditticult enough to make commentary a necessity and memorization a useful
exercise in poetry training. Others among the old revolutionary generals in
the Party leadership had published classical poetry before the Cultural
Revolution, and in its aftermath, and into the late 1970s, such displays from
the leadership became commonplace. Hua Guofcng and Deng Xiaoping are
unusual in having declined to emulate their predecessors in this, though Hua
did release facsimiles of a folksong copied down in his own handwriting in
1977.^^ Apart from the old generals, a few of the older intellectuals, includ-
ing such pioneers of the vernacular in May Fourth days as Guo Moruo,

^ See Peking Review (1969), 2.
McDougall, "Poems, Poets, and Poetry 1976," pp. 106-107.

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Mao Dun, and Yc Shengtao, also published pcx^ms in the classical stvle in
the at-tcrmath ot the Culrural Revolution. Another boost to classical learn-
ing came during the anti-Confucian movement of 1973—1975 when, as part
of the Legalist-Confucian debate, many classical texts from the Warring
States down to the Qing dynasty were printed in cheap pamphlets for mass
study. Some unexpected figures turned up as Legalists and, hence, as writers
worthy of study, such as Liu Zongyuan, Li He, and Li Shangyin.^^ Although
this vogue did not last long, it was another sign of the continued relevance
of the classical tradition.

The real vitality of the tradition was dramatically revealed in the sudden
outpouring of poetry occasioned by the Qingming 1976 remembrance at
Tiananmen for the late Premier Zhou Enlai.^^ These poems either mourn
Zhou Enlai or angrily attack the clique of Zhang Chunqiao, Jiang Qing, and
Yao Wenyuan (and probably Mao as well). If the collections are at all
representative, we may conclude that the majority of the poems written for
this occasion were in classical style; moreover, that they are arranged in the
various collections primarily by formal metrical type shows an editorial
awareness of formal values in even the most highly charged political verse.

Given such a spontaneous return to the classical tradition by the
younger generation, there is good reason to expect its further vitality. In
the unofficial journals of 1978—1979 (see below), which, like their Tianan-
men predecessors, were produced chiefly by the voung, classical and ver-
nacular poetry mmgle as m the official literarv magazines. Now that the
leadership does not set its own verse as a national study goal and that the
older generation is reduced in size and power, some of the popular
know ledge of classical poetic forms may diminish. However, the increased
emphasis on higher education and on the treasures of the Chinese past
may create a new educated elite, who may initiate a new wave of classical
composition. What may remain unique to China, apart from the mixture
of classical, folk, and modern poetry, is the extraordinary range of people
who still express themselves in verse: from elderly generals to student
protesters and from senior intellectuals to workers, peasants, and soldiers.
In this sense, poetry continues to be a "popular" art in a way now almost
unknown in the West.

Further Restorations in the Early 1970s
The restoration of order in 1969, after the battles of 1967 and 1968,
was largely effected by the People's Liberation Army (PLA), and subse-
quent events in the PLA a>nrinued to affect cultural developments. The ^1
of Lin Biao in 1971 was followed by a further relaxation in literature and

^ See, for instance, Liang Xiao and Wen Jun, **Lan Li Sliangyinde *Wu ti* shi" [On die
"without title" poems of Li Shangjrin], U$hi yanjiu [Historical research] (1975), 2. pp. 76-83.
For a discussion of these poems, see McDougall, "Dissent Literature."

THt FIRST I HRtt DtCADtS

297

the arts, so that at the Spring Festival in 1972 a number oi reprints of
older and modern books were released, toucther with some new titles.^*
Strictly speaking, the post-Cultural-Rcvolution thaw began betorc the tall
of the Gang of Four.

Professional quyi (minor performing arts such as xiangsheng) returned
to the stage in 1972. Over the next four years, there was a gradual increase
in the number of books and cultural magazines released per year/'' and
1976 started out promisingly with the inauguration of five national jour-
nals for literature and the arts. The film industry also enjoyed renewed
activity during the period from 1972 to 1976 (see the essay by Paul Clark
in this volume), and new operas (model and other) were created and
transplanted.

Many of the new titles published in this period were re*issues or new
works by previously unknown authors, and amateur writers continued to
receive encouragement from the authorities. The three traditions — classi-
cal, popular, and Western — continued to co-exist, but the popular tradi-
tion was more prominent than in any period since the Yan*an days. This
resurgence was apparent in such areas as the revival of local opera de-
scribed above, the publication of folk and classical poetry in the national
Poetry Journal, and the folksy narrative style adopted in many short
stories. One factor behind the continuation of the three traditions was the
increased control of the authorities over the content of literary and per-
forming w^orks. With no choice in this respect but some choice in matters
of form and style, a writer who selected a traditional genre could at least
find some challenge to his or her professional skill. In this way, the native
tradition offered a relatively sate harbor for writers seeking a temporary
refuge. Nevertheless, as in the l'^^S()s and 1960s, the internaiional style in
fiction and poetry still exerted a strong attraction, especially on the
younger generation. The only major modern form that tailed to make a
comeback in the aftermath of the Cultural Revolution was the spoken
drama.

The most notable figure in the literary world was the novelist and
tormer peasant, Hao Ran. His short stories from the 1950s and i960s and
his novel Yanyang tian [Bright sunny skicsl were among the first to be
released in 1972, and his novel Jinguang dadao [Road of golden light] was
the first major new work since the Cultural Revolution proper. Other
figures who gradually reappeared between 1972 and 1976 indude He
Jingzhi, He Qifang, Zang Kejia, Feng Zhi, and Tian Jian. Some had old

McDougall, "Poems, Poets and Vnctr\ 19-6," p. SO .hkI n.

According to Jack Chen, seven hundred novels were betore the pubhshers in 1973, six
hundred of than by amateur writers: In^e Guttural Revolutim, p, 403. See also Chai
Pien, A Glance at China's New Culture (Peking: Foreign Languages Press, 1975), pp. 27-41.

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works republished, and most of the poets produced poems or essays cele-
brating the new Hundred Flowers.

Nevertheless, the pace of improvement w as very slow, and Mao was not
the only leader to express mipatience. Several times, decisions were made
to increase the quantity of literary production, and the section of the
leadership responsible for cultural matters became very defensive. The
debates between the Zhou Enlai— Deng Xiaoping group (Deng being one of
the first cadres to be rehabilitated in 1973) and the Zhang-jiang-Yao
group increased in intensity. It focused especially on such questions as the
revival of the literature of the seventeen years before the Cultiural Revolu-
tion, the appropriateness of the yangbanxi as a model for nontheatrical
literary works, and the current slow growth in literary and art production.

The problem of slow growth could be attributed to three related causes.
First, the gradual rehabilitation of literary and art workers in the early
1970s was limited in the number of people who were allowed to reappear
and in the degree to which their former incomes and privileges were being
restored. If one section of the leadership was bent on restoration of power
to the rehabilitated, another was equally determined not to permit their
former power to be restored. Since the latter group (Zh.mt;, Jiang, and
Yao) were in control of the cultural media, they were able to limit the
effectiveness of these older writers and artists. Secondly, the intimidation
of writers and artists during the Cultural Revolution (see below) had been
far more intense than m the previous antirightist movement and, with
many of the Cultural Revolution leaders still in power, these rehabilitated
workers were understandably cautious in responding to new demands for
their professional skills. Finally, the new cultural authorities had not been
wholly successful in their plan of replacing the older professional writers
and artists with amateurs from the ranks of the workers, peasants, and
soldiers. Without senior teachers, critics, and editors, without material
incentives, and without much time to learn the needed skills, the new
generation was under a severe handicap. Moreover, the experience of their
elders may well have had an inhibiting effect on these fledgling talents.

The clash between these two factions came to a head in 1976. The
Zhang-Jiang~Yao group became pre-eminent after the death of Zhou
Enlai and the fall of Zhou's supporters, such as Deng Xiaoping and the
Minister of Education, Zhou Rongxin, after the Tiananmen incident at
Qingming. The summer of 1976 saw some relaxation of tension with Hua
Guofeng, a compromise figure, as the new premier, but the earthquake in
July and the death of Mao two months later showed that this unity had
been an illusion. The group now known as the Gang of Four (Zhang,
Jiang, Yao, and Wang Hongwen) was expelled, possibly at gunpoint and
certainly with the support of the PLA. Their chief ally in cultural innova-
tion and administration, the composer and Minister of Culture, Yu

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THt FIRST THREE DECADES

299

Huiyong, is said to have committed suicide, and Hao Ran, their chief
cuhural hero, underwent a lengthy period oi detention and interrogation
betore being allowed to pubhsh again.

Two other groups of writers, however, still claim our attention. In the
first half of the 1970s, the attention of the Western world was suddenly
directed toward the apparent existence of "dissent literature" in China.
Newspaper accounts of novels and poems in private or underground circu-
lation were substantiated by the publication of such material in Hong
Kong, although the Hong Kong versions themselves received surprisingly
little publicity.^ Secondly, the publication of the stories of Chen Jo-hsi
(Chen Ruoxi), first in Chinese in Hong Kong and Taiwan and then in
English translation in the U.S., provided foreign readers not only with a
sensitive and shocking view of the Cultural Revolution but with some of
the finest writing to have come out of China for many years.^* Chen
Jo-hsi's stories were followed by a political thriller by the pseudonymous
Hsia Chih-yen (Xia Zhiyan), first in Japanese and then in English trans-
lation." Unlike Chen's stories about the problems and terrors of everyday
life for teachers in Nanking, Hsia's novel offers dramatic glimpses into
high-level political and military circles in Peking and into the underground
life of "scnt-down" youth in the city. Also unlike the subtle delicacy of
Chen's stories, Hsia's novel is written in a fiashy best-seller style of little
literary merit. Whether either or both of these works can be described as
dissent literature is a subject of debate; both were, after all, written and
published outside China. Moreover, Chen Jo-hsi was born in Taiwan and
educated in the United States; during her six years in C^hina she was
regarded as an outsider. Whereas the authenticity of her account of Hfc in
China has been amply confirmed, her Hterary sensibility and style set her
apart from mainland writers.

However, if neither Chen Jo-hsi nor Hsia Chih-yen could write or circu-
late their work in China, others have done so, and it is their expressions
that we should look to for truly native dissent writing. Underground litera-
ture m (;hina was the direct result of the Cultural Revolution: deprived of
works emanating from the center, these young writers created their own.
Their works, hand-copied, mimeographed, or orally transmitted, arc the
most perfea example in contemporary China of the fusion between author
and audience: untouched by state or Party intervention, this effort was
truly an example of writers serving the people. Some of this literature was

^ Bonnie S. McDougall, "Underground Literature: Two Rq)Oits from Hong Kong,**
Contempomry China 3, 4 (Winter 19791, and "Dissent Literature."

Chen Jo-hsi, The Execution of Mayor Ytn and Other Stones from the Great Proletarian
Cultural Revolution (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1978).

^ Hsia Chih-yen, The Coidest Wimer in Peking: A Novel from mside China (New York:
Doubleday, 1978).

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BONNIE S. McDOUGALL

written primarily for cntcriainmcni; sonic was for private solace or per-
sonal expression; some was direct political and social protest. The
Liniqucl) cciural position of literature, and of poetry above all, has no-
where been demonstrated so fully and passionately as in the outpourings
of poems at Tiananmen in 1976, which circulated underground before
reaching first limited and then open publication in China in 1977 and
1978. Although their circulation obviously suited the purposes of a faction
within the then leadership, it was nonetheless a spontaneous phenomenon.
Private individuals wrote the poems, copied down others' poems, circu-
lated these copies among their close friends, found ingenious hiding places
for them in their homes, and refused to hand them over to the authorities.

The Persecution of Writers during the Cultural Revolution
One of the most notorious aspects of the Cultural Revolution was the
relendess persecution of most of the prominent writers of the previous

decades. Many lesser-known people from literature and the arts, people
from intellectual and educational circles, and people with no special claim
to fame at all were caught up in this wave of terror. If hundreds of
thousands were involved in the rectification and antirightist campaigns,
millions were probably caught up during the Cultural Revolution. Many
Western observers have been particularly horrified at the fate suffered by
some of China's erstwhile leading writers, such as Ba (in and Lao She.''' It
is easier for us to reconstruct in our imagination ihc tragedy of someone
whose voice speaks to us in familiar tones and whose outlook and interests
are close to our own. And yet it is more than just class sympathy or the
rhetorical power of the victim that impels us to pay special attention to the
persecution by the state of its writers and artists. A state that represses or
persecutes its intellectuals, writers, and artists is equally apt to extend such
repression to t)ther groups who offend its conventions. Brutality toward a
group we can identify is an index of possible brutality toward those whom
we cannot identify. Beyond this, there is also the particular distress we feel
at the repression of the sensitive and the articulate, regardless of the moral
or social worth of their lives or work. The systematic destruaion of an
existing culture, even if undertaken to dear the way for the growth of a
new one, is perhaps always a net loss for the whole of humanity. And if
that new culture fails to materialize, or shows only weak and sporadic
growth, the poignancy of our loss is even more profound. Even before the
Cultural Revolution, there were several instances where individual writers
or groups of writers were vigorously persecuted. The rancour of these

** See, iot example, Paul Bady, "Death and the Novel — on Lao She's Suicide' " and
"Rehabilitation: A Chronological Postscript," Renditions, 10 (Autumn 1978): 5-14, 15-20;
Olga Lang, ''Introduction'' to Pa Chin, Family (New York: Doubleday, 1972), pp. xxiv-
xxvi.

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THE FIRST THREE DECADES

301

persecutions was considerable and cannot be easily explained. Historical
factors may be part of the reason. l iterary persecutions were not unknown
in imperial C^hina, where there was a strong tradition of mutual contempt
among writers. In more recent times, the persecution of writers by the
Nationalist Party in China and by the Communist Party in the U.S.S.R. set
precedents for the Chinese Communist Party to follow. Setting writers to
persecute other writers was a tactic adopted in the U.S.S.R. and in Yan*an
China. Its use in China after 1949, when writers were more deeply in-
volved in competition for state and Party positions, was probably a major
factor in the peculiar bitterness of post- 1949 persecutions. Referring more
broadly to the social basis for the persecutions in the Cultural Revolution,
Stuart R. Schram has conunented as follows: **It would be unduly simplis-
tic, and unfair to the social category to which many of the readers of this
journal [China Quarterly] belong, to say that urban intellectuals (who
were the main bearers of the Cultural Revolution) are nastier, more vindic-
tive, and more given to factional fighting than peasants, but 1 suspect that
the difference in atmosphere between the two movements [urban and ru-
ral] was not wholly unrelated to this difference in their social basis.

Regrettable as it may seem to socialist idealists, it appears from the
Chinese example in this century that writers and artists need either actual
or prospective social leadership or else material security in order to flour-
ish. They can survive, as creative writers and artists, through material
poverty and political oppression — if, at the same time, they have a politi-
cally and socially significant role to play. They can survive, if not as
producers then as figureheads, in periods of intense political control — if, at
the same time, they can enjoy material rewards and assured social leader-
ship. Bur denied security and denied a political or social role as a group,
then regartiless of the rewards that may yet be won by the individual, very
few artists arc prepared to accept the risk.

NEW DIRECTIONS: AFTER THE FALL OF THE FOUR

The fall of the Ciang of Four in October 1976 was immcdiatcK toliowed
by a sustained campaign against the dang and their policies and sup-
porters of the last few years. I he campaign ai this point did not attack the
Cultural Revolution; its products, such as the yanghanxi; or its prime
leader, Mao Zedong. It consisted instead of very bitter and personal invec-
tive against the Gang and their followers. Literature and art, as usual, were
pressed into service, and although a new element of spontaneous enthusi-
asm can perhaps be detected in this work, it was basically yet another
prediaable instance of the leadership's manipulation of the arts.

^ Stwut R. Sdtram, "To Utopia and Back: A Cyde in the History of the Chinese
Gimmunist Party," China Quarterly 87 (September 1981): 407-439, esp. p. 427.

Copyriyi iicu I : i ulCI lal

302

BONNIE S. McDOUGALL

In 1977 and 1978, the campaign against the Gang ot lour shifted into a
new phase. As the excessive rhetoric began to level off, new and more
fundamental targets for criticism were found. The Cultural Revolution was
declared officially over and, as its policies were gradually discarded, its
procedures and aims were openly denounced, and the infallibility of Mao
Zedong and the validity of his deification became open to debate. In
literature, the first open sign of the new and more profound approach to
the problems of the immediate past was the "exposure" short story, "Ban
zhuren" [The class teacher], published by Liu Xinwu in November 1977.
Though diis was evidently printed with the approval of at least some of
the leadership, the next such story did not appear until the following
summer, and after some difficulty. This story, "Shanghen" [The scar;
sometimes mistranslated as The wound or The wounded] by Lu Xinhua,
like "The Class Teacher,** introduced elements into literature that had
been absent for a decade or more: intellectual protagonists, questioning of
the philosophic basis of populist and anti rightist movements, problematic
or unresolved endings, and the insinuation that tragedy could be an appro-
priate mode in a socialist society.^^ These issues were debated in the na-
tional media during 1978 as other examples of scar literature," including
spoken drama, were published. But the debate was one-sided, and when
official sanction was finally bestowed at the end of 1978, it came as no
surprise. In 1979, scar literature increased not onlv in quantity but also in
the profundity of its exposure of social ills in C^hma, going back even to
the period before the Cultural Revolution. The defects of the movement's
quality, however, as in the case of its predecessors, are apparent in its
longwindedness, didacticism, sentimentality, and banal writing stvle.

Along with scar literature came the "unofficial literature" published in
privately prmted and circulated magazines and pamphlets. Known as
"popular publications" {mmban kanwu)^ they began to appear at the end
of 1978 and flourished most vigorously in the spring of 1979. Most of
these publications were primarily poHtical, and the literary material in
their pages differs only in content, not in style, from scar literature.^
However, some of the magazines devoted to literature were truly different.
The most notable of these was the magazine Jintian [Today], which ap-

See Bennett Lee, "Introduction" to Lu Xinhua et ah. The Wot4nded (Hong Kong:
Joint Publishing Company, 1979), pp. 1-7; Geremie Barme, "Flowers or More Weeds?
Culture in China since die Fall of die Gang of Four," Australian Journal of Chinese Affairs
1 (January 1979): 125-133; Kam Louie, "DiscussifMis on 'Exposure Literature* since the
Fall of the 'Gang of Four'," Contemporary China 3, 4 (Winter 1979); and McDougall,
**Dis8cnt Literature."

** Peter Chan, "Popular Publications in China — A Look at Ihe Spring of Veking,'" Con-
temporary China 3, 4 (Winter 1979); Qian Yiixiang, "History, Be My Judge!" trans, by
Virginia Mayer Chan in Contemporary China 3, 4 (Winter 1979): 128-140; and McDougall,
"Dissent Literature."

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THE FIRST THREE DECADES

303

pearcd in nine issues between December 1978 and September 1980.^^ It
contained the most remarkable poetry published in China since 1949, by
young writers such as Bei Dao (Zhao Zhenkai), Mang Kc, Gu Cheng, and
Shu Ting. Some of these poems were written as early as 1972 and circu-
lated among friends; others were written after 1976 but were still unac-
ceptable in the ofiicial media. Poetry was Today's chief accomplishment,
but it also published fine short stories by Shi Mo and Ai Shan (also
pseudonyms for Zhao Zhenkai) and Wan Zhi (Chen Maiping).

The year 1979 was a confused period in Chinese literature and arts. On
the one hand, the unofficial literature that had surfaced the previous year
was gradually suppressed, so that by the end of 1979 it had virtually
disappeared ^om the streets. On the other hand, writers and performers of
older generations were being restored to public life and even to positions
of cultural and social leadership. The extension of rehabilitation to the
scapegoats of the 1950s led to some odd confrontations: Ding Ling and Ai
Qing, for instance, appeared on the same platform as their former persecu-
tor, Zhou Yang. However, the mood of 1979 was one of conciliation
under the Party's banner. A pass into the official world was even extended
to the unofficial writers, and a few poems by Bei Dao and Shu Ting
appeared in the official press.

The restored intellectual and political elites found themselves in an even
closer partnership than before. Both were anxious to eHminate the rem-
nants of leftism from the state and Party bureaucracy and to revive the
concept of an (orderly and stable society run by a small elite. Nevertheless,
tension still existed between them. The bourth National Congress of Liter-
ary and Art i'ersonnel, held in October— November 1979, revealed a wide
range of attitudes among Party leaders, Party cultural authorities, and the
writers and artists themselves.'''^ Some of the participants recognized their
past shortcomings and apologized for them; others could only express
bewilderment and grief. In some cases the record was subtly altered. Yang
Hansheng's list of writers and artists "hounded to death" by the dang of
Four included writers who had died after the iatter's fall, such as He

Sec Bonnie S. McDoug-ill, "A I'oetry of Sh.u^nvs," in Bei D.io, Notes from the City of
the Sun (Ithaca: Cornell University China-Japan I'rogram, 1983) and David S. G. Goodman,
Beijing Street Voices: The Poetry and Politics of Otma's Democracy Movement (Londkm:
Marion Boyars, 1981).

Some of the documents fifom the Fourth Congress m Z.hongguo wcnxue yishu jic
lianhehui, cd., Zhong^un wenxne yishu gongztiozhe disu i daihtao dahui wcnji | Documents
from the Fourth Congress of Chinese Literature and Arts Personnel] (Chengdu: Sichuan
renmin chubanshe, 1980). Translations of some of these and other documents from the
Congress are in Howard Goldblatt, ed., Chinese Uteranire far the 1980$: The Fourth Om-
gress ofWrUers and Artists (Armonk, N.Y.: Sharpe, 1982).

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304

BONNIE S. McDUUOALL

Qifani; and Ciuo Xiaochiian — on the grounds that the Gang's activities
hastened or indirectly caused iheir deaths.*''*

Ahhough the newly rehabiUtated writers and artists immediately
plunged into new work, not much can be expected from the senior genera-
tion, given their advanced age, poor health, and dismal record of achieve-
ment in the past. The reappearance of such writers from the Hundred
Flowers period as Wang Meng and Liu Bingyan holds more promise. Their
proven talent, courage, and ability to mature in adversity has already given
their work a strong new voice. Together with the scar and unofficial
newcomers, these writers are producing the most interesting literature to
come out of China since 1949. The old literary establishment of the period
before the Cultural Revolution is back in power, but its ranks are greatly
thinned by natural attrition and political persecution, and it was deprived
for most of a decade of the chance to mold its successors.

In many ways, the situation at the end of the 1970s resembled that at
the beginning of the 1950s. The system of rewards and punishments was
revived, and criticism was allowed only within centrally controlled limits.
The new leadership offered active encouragement to the formation of new
educational and cultural elites. The rural population was encouraged to
enrich itself, and though its educational opportunities were limited, there
was less control over its recreation. Both the political elite and the new,
upwardly mobile intelligentsia had a distinctly Western orientation. Al-
though the traditional theater flourished, the trend toward borrovvmg
from the popular tradition to create new works ot literature and art was
quiescent. If the movement toward modernization continues as promised,
then it is \'an'an populism, not the May Fourth or Western-oriented tradi-
tion, that is likely to be only a passing phase in the cultural history of
twentieth-century China.

1 he number ut deaths amung writers and artists during the Cultural Rcvulutiun is
obviously a sensitive topic Between the years 1966 and 1979, the membership of the Writers*

Association dropped from 1,059 to 865. Most of the decrease must be due to deaths, and
most of rlu'M' dfarhs occurred between 1966 .ind I ''69. Roughly 150 writers (.lead in three
years is a very lart;c ti^urt- Howi-vt-r, we cannot rule out natural attrition, suui- some ol these
writers were born around the turn of the century and the average lite expectancy for a
Shan^ai Chinese male in 1964 (most of the senior writers are urban men) was 69.3 years. It
is remarkable that frail elderly gendemen like Ba Jin, Mao Dun, and Guo Moruo were able to
survive.

Copyrighted material

CONTRIBUTORS

Paul Clark recently completed the Ph.D. Jeprccc in History nnd East Asian
languages at Harvard. He was in I'eking as an exchange student from New-
Zealand from 1974 to 1976 and is the author ot "hlauhau": I he Pat XLinre
Search for Maori Identity. His thesis topic was Chinese Him making and Him
audiences since 1949.

Michael Egan has a doctorate in modem Chinese literature from the University
of Toronto, where he wrote his dissertation on the short stories of Yu Dafu.
The author of several articles and book reviews about Chinese literature, he is a
freelance writer who divides his time between Toronto and Ottawa.

Edward Gunn is assistant professor of Chinese literature at Cornell University.

He has published a book-length stud\ . Unwelcome Muse: Chinese Literature in
Shanghai and Peking^ 1937-1945, and Twentieth-Century Chinese Drama: An

Anthology.

RoBKRT I- . Hi (.11 is associate professor of Chinese language and literature at
Washington University in St. Louis. He is the author of The Novel in Seven-
teenth Century China and of several articles in both English and Chinese on
Ming-Qing fiction.

David Holm is lecturer in Chinese at Macquarie University in Sydney. He is the
author of a number of articles on the Chinese performing arts and on the
genesis of Chinese Communist Party cultural policy in Yan*an during the 1940s.

Kai-yu Hsu (d. 1982) completed his undergraduate degree at Tsinghua and his
Ph.D. at Stanford. From 1959 to 1982 he was professor of world literature at

San Francisco State University. Recent publications include: The Chinese Liter'
ary Scene: A Writer's Visit to the People's Repuhlic (1976), The Literature of
the People's Republic of China (1980), and Wen l-to (1980).
T. n. Hiui Ks teaches C^hinese language and literature at the Universitv of Min-
nesota. His publications include Qian Zhongshu (Twayne, 1982) and Revolu-

305

Copyrighted material

306

CONTRIBUTORS

tionary Literature in China: An Anthology (M. E. Sharpe, 1977), of which he is
co-editor.

Perry Link is associate professor in modern Chinese hterature at the University
of California, Los Angeles. Publications include Mandarin Ducks and Butter-
flies: Popular Fiction in Early Twentieth-Century Chinese Cities (Berkeley: Uni-
versity of California Press, 1981). He is currently researching contemporary
Oiinese fiction and drama in its social context.

WaI'FOng Loh is a graduate of New Asi.i ( olkge at the Chinese University of
Hong Kong and received his Ph.D. at Harvard. He is now an assistant professcMr
of Chinese history at Harvard and specializes in the institutional and socio-
economic history of China.

BoNNiF S. M( DouGALL has taught Chinese language and hterature at the Uni-
versity ol Sydney and at Harvard University. Recent puhHcations include the
translation of Notes from the City of the Sun by Bei Dao and Chmu Handbook
Series: IMeraUtre and the Arts. She spent three years as editor and translator at
die Foreign Langua^s Press, Peking, and is currently engaged on a history of
modem Chinese poetry.

Isabel K. F. Wong was bom in China. She received her university education in
Australia and in the United States. While finishing her doctoral dissertation for

Brown University on ktmqu music theater, she is also serving as a visiting
faculty member at the University of Illinois, Urbana-C^hampaign. In 1982 she
conducted research on imisic in China with a grant from the Committee on
Scholarly Communication with the People's Republic of China.

Bell Yung was born in Shanghai and raised in Hong Kong. He received a Ph.D.
in Physics from the Massachusetts institute of Technology, and a Ph.D. in
Music from Harvard University. In January 1981 he joined die feiculty at the
University of Pittsburgh. His publications on Cantonese opera, Cantonese popu-
lar narratives, and music of the seven-string zither have appeared in Ethno-
musicology, Chinoperl Papers, and the New Groves Dictionary of Music and
Musicians.

Copyrighted material

Glossary

ffjfe^ AQing

>k AYi

nH AYing

5^"^ Ai Qing

jtjflt AiShan

J- if i^4tii.^ ' Any udn Lukuang gongren julebu

Ashina
BaJin
Ba Ren

huge"

**Aiizhao renminde mingling"

BaiRu

"Baigujing xianxingji**

'^Baiyun £bo Jiaoxiang shi

''Ban zhuren"

hangzi

banyan

Bao Yutang

Baoziwan zhandou

307

Copyrighted material

^ Bishang Uangshan

^08 GLOSSARY

it ^ basht

Bei Dao

Z Bian Zhilin

Bixue hua

t^5. 6o«^;> faaidim

bongji faai-jungbaan
- J 6off£fi ftmgbaan

^^\fjK bong ji maanbaan

Hf )|L Caikuang

i ^ Cao Yu
iL fit ^ caobao diren

^ ^ canjun
^ ^ ^ Chang Baohua

f^^^^ Chang Fengzhuan
^ -* iq Chang Guitian

Chao, Y. R. s^e Zhao Yuanren
"^J 'fe *t Chen Baichen
f . il« ^ Chen Maiping

Chen Jo-hsi see Chen Ruoxi
Chen Ruoxi
tf.^jL ChenZhiliang
fi^ii^ Cheng Fangwu
^jr| Cheng Yin

:|c| chenzi

Copyrighted material

GLOSSARY 309

Chu Renhuo
Chuan fiabao
^'J ^ Chuangye
M ^ ^ Chuangye shi
chuanqi

^^J^ ci-fu

4- 1L Cui Wei
f}^^ cuojueshi
Daletyu
i^\S\ Da maxituan

''Dadao diren houfang qu"
dagu

DahebenHu
daiyanti
"Dalugc"
daobai
i I ^ if dayoushi
^f46 DcngTuo
^ C^il-jL') Diao (Adviser)
J ^ Ding Ling
JA'^-t "Ding ying shang"
Dingdeng

^ * "Dongfang liong"

^4*^-^^ "DiuduiUan"
Dufuanshan
^ ^ erhuang
s- errentai

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310 GLOSSARY

Fan Keming

ran am

fangge

rangxta nuie otaftzt

***

Fei Mu

reng Jmgyuan

Feng Mu

reng Shaohuai

Feng Xuefteng

reng Zhi

f| X.

Fengshen yanyt

Fengshuwan

Fengxu

Fengyun emu

•J >^

fumo

IrWfl SHiZ*

Fushi

\jainang

"Gangdu zan**

M IBL '^'i >i[ '

Ganftaifi xiexiotuMU HuoMohe

Gao Daauan

vjao crun

fg€iU€fH47lg

^Gaoshan shaosuo^

-4r ft*

gechangpian

geju

geming gequ

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GLOSSARY 311

Gu Cheng
' Gu 21hongyi

Guandi

Guangdong xinyu

Guangxi tezhong buzu geyao ji
p guankou

Guo (Instructor)
ip>^j|^ Guo Monio

. 1 > j k I Guo Xiaochuan
Guo Zhendng

guzhuang xiju

*Kf If

}f Iff

Haixia
"Haiyan"
Han Baizhong

Hao Ran
Hcjingzhi

^L/S| Kongzhou

-W ^ He Qifang

n >L^^t yuanhun

-f ^-^t "Hcxi zoulang bubu ge'
'^JiL tiongdengji
fc, -5- Hxmgse niangzi fun

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312 GLOSSARY

\fLai^ HouBaolin

Hsia Chih-yen see Xia Zhiyan
( ^ 4^) Hu (Commander)
*^ Hu f eng

mt, Hu Shi

huaben
huagudeng

huaguxi
Huaishuzhuang
ii^'l huaju
/^fl Huang Zi

Huang Zuolin
^ Huangdao yingxiong

Ifflti^^ *'Huanghe chuanfu qu"
K^^ll "Huanghe dahechang"
Hudiemi
>/^'\ huju
-A^i-U Hunli

Jj^ Jiang Zhou
Jiangnan huaji
-1^."^ |& JiaoErju
^. . Jiao Shuhong

i^^^i^ ff^ffou dutxiang
JinShengtan
fing iuogu
^ jingbai
'^A'l fingfu
•f'^^ jirtgpai
^ i* ^^*4jL Jinguang dadao

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GLOSSARY

313

Jintian

JueUe

Julan

Ke Ling

Kc Yan

'*Ke zai Bancangshanshang**

iii'itK If ♦•jAti'' t

"Ke zai Beidahuangde tudishang"

n if -f

Ke Zhongping

"Kong dimg ji"

Kong Jue

kuai er buluan

Kuang liu

kunfu

kunqu

Lan Ping

"Lao daniangde kang**

Lao She

Lei Zhenbang

"Leitai**

1 1 1 n^incTTni

Li Guanstian

lA nan<|iu

Li li

Li Jianwu

Li Jinghan

Li Jun

Li Mai

Li Qiushi

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314

GLOSSARY

Li Shuangshuang
Li Shaobai
Li Xueao
Li Ying

Li Youcai banhua
Li Zhun
Liang Bin
^ i: ^ Liang Shangquan
^ i; ^ ^ Liangshang junzi
lianhuan ji
i^S:^ ^ Mohan

iff
7 '/c^f

Linhm xueyum
liti

Liu Baiyu

Liu binyan
Liu Cui
Liu Qing
Liu Sanjie
Liu Sanmd
Liu Tanke
Liu Wan
Liu Xinwu
Liu yi
Liu Zheng

Liuzhou caidiao man

Lu Xinhua

Lu Xun yishu wenxue yuan
Lu zai fade fiaoxia yanshen
Ludang huozhong

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GLOSSARY 31S

y Luo Changpei

Luyi see Lu Xun yishu wenxue yuan
Ma, Sitson see Ma Sicong
i Ma Fenglan

*f Maji
Ma Ke
-Si-^if Ma Sicong

^ Ma Zhiyue

man er buduan
Mang Ke
Mao Dun
4. j ^ Mao Zonggang
^ X **Maozi gongchang"
-j^i^ Mei Lanfang
^ ^ Mei Luoxiang
/g^fA Meihu

"Meihua sannong"
^.i^ mmban kanum

4 Mingmo yihen

\i>Jt\^ Minzhong jutuan
^inzuxingshi

i-k. mu yu
-iff^t Nala

nan qt

it/^J ^ ? Nanfiang chun zoo

t2: Nanzheng beizhan

Nie Er
jr |r Ning Yu

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316

GLOSSARY

^ Niu Dashui

^S'i^L^L niuyangge

Nongnu

Nongzhen chengjia

Nit jiaotongyuan

Ouyang Shan
Ouyang Yuqian
i^^ilJf paimenzi
i^K.^ P^o dachang
fjfi. **Pao guan dong"

^ ^ Peng Ning

petiggende

^ ^tL ^ g| chayuan

^ i^^i ^ fXs^ Pingyuan youjidui

^ Qi Rush an

^-4*4^ Qian Xingcun

4'^'^^^ Qian Zhongshu

-ffj^ "Qianlisr

'13 Qiao Yu

4^ ( ^ '♦^ ^ ^ Qi'* (Commander)

^A.^ Qin Shouou

^ % /o- ^^"^ ^^"^ y"''''
jj^ Qmgchun

^ i.-^ Qingchun zhi ge

Qinqiang

Copyrighted matBrial

GLOSSARY

317

M^lf. QtuHaitang

Oixi Baihutuan

Qu Bo
A K^^ Qu Dajun
^ I'A.'fe Qu Qiubai
tft quyi

-Raodao"

"^jf^if^j Mengkan
yi- Ren Guang

^ikl. rouzhongxue
fi*^ Ruan Zhangjing

Sagabong see Shajiabang
^ ^ -^Li '^''^ Jinhua

5<i»'g« modeng mixing
js. ^ «^ ^ sanfan sidou
~ ^ San qianjin

If Shajiabang
'tl\ ^^^s Shart'ge Han
^ 4^ Shanghai juyi she
?^ '^tj ^ Shanghaide zaochen

"Shanghen"

-t- ^- *i ^^^^y^^^ gmquan

y ^\ Jianbo
^>ftj^ Shao Quanlin

•3{^ /A, it, Congwen

it i6 ^ '1^ s/;^«g er bujirt

Copyrighted material

GLOSSARY

^ ^ Shi Hui
^% Shi Mo
»lff£ ShiTuo

Shidai
if f 'J Shikan
j^i1^^>l4 shuerbuyott
if^l Shu Ting
^ 4 shulaibao

S/y»o Timg quanzhuan

^^t_ Song Min
SongZhidi
Sui shi yiwen
^ Sui Tang yanyi
Sulianzhiyou she
Sun Guiying

"Ta ye yao sha ren**
^^j'^'K Taihmgluhuo

M TangDatong

A .i, ^^^S jiezhong

Q l>L '^i^ii Han

^ Tian Jian

•?^f -ii 'L» Tian jieer

*'Tianchao zanmei ge"
^K,A^ "Tiedaren"

GLOSSARY 319

Tixiao ytnyuan
Tongzhi Cangum xianzhi

it ^ ^^^^

^f^i^^j waichahua

^ Wanjiabao

-fi WanZhi

-5 ^ ^ 4^ "Wang Gui yu Li Xiangxiang"

X ^ Wang Kuazi

1 ^ Wang Li

^ ^ — Wang Liaoyi

2 1^ Wang Meng
J. ^ Wang Ping

-J- l^r^fit^ Wang Renshu

^ ^ 0^ Wang Tongzhao

^ Wang Yang

fl^ Weicheng

^L^l Well Tianxiang

Wen Yiduo
wenmingxi

"K. % % ^^^^ jikan

4fe >f- 4 ^ J^*J "jft Wubude qi pmg ze ming

Jt j^-i^ "Wugengdiao"

fl^ Wu Han

^ ^ Wu Tian

Copyrighted material

320 GLOSSARY

Wu Zuguang

^^li^ WuZuxiang

iSL ^ >i tMihui fa

Xt:i Xia Yan

'^t :fi Xia Zhiyan

/stft i ^ Xian Xinghai

^fl "Xiangmian"

J-fl ^ xiangsheng

%l% if; ^ (<^> XMO changzi (xi)

jSf Xiao Chang chun

.1* xiaoerge

• 1 ' -^i Xiaogu xian

i^-SrH^ ^ Xw2f suanmmg

^^>^*J t "Xiju yu fangyan"

*X>t!lft>Ji "Xijuzatan-

xin zhong you Uao bu ping shi

1^ '*f fi] /4*J Xin Zhongguo jushc

a K>i^ xintianyou

it ^ 1^ Xiongmei kaihuang

/f^^ xipi erliu

;i*L ^

g^ll^ «pimanban

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GLOSSARY 3Z1

xipi yuanban
^S:)'*^^^ Xishaermi
ti- "Xiu jin bian"

Xu Chi
X. ^ A-i^ Xu Damabang

\it>^ Xu Gang
"i^ /■ ^ Xu Guangping
^ Xu Zhimo
jtf< Xun'an

Yan Chen

Yang Hansheng
Yang Jiang

l^ii- Yang Mo
4* -J- ^ Zirong
>»»"«*«» (''I

yanggeju
Yanyangtian

Yao Hsin-nung se^ Yao Ke
-i^itU YaoKe

Yao Pengzi
Ye dian
^ -fc i^f Ye Shanghai
i ft^ Yc Shengtao

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322 GLOSSARY

^1 ^ Ymli

Yishan tezhong buzu geyao ji
4^4^' Yishan xianzhi
\fa^2 Yiyangqiang

Yingxiong song
ij_ 4'} ^ "Yiyongjun jinxing qu"
yizhi geming yangbanxi
^ii^*, "Youyi song"

■J ^ '^iS Huiyong
f ;6 YuU
f # Yu Ung
Yuan Jing
"j^J^ Yuan Yuling

ZangKejia
i^>^ Zhang Geng

Zhang Henshui
Zhang Jinfa
Zhang Jinlong
ij^^^ Zhang Ruif ang
J-^dt i ^ Zhang sheng xi Ymgying
Ij^^ Zhang Shiwen
Zhang Shu
Zhang Weiwang
ifi^ii Zhang Zhimin

Zhao Dan
^% *ij Zhao Huiming

Zhao Puchu
J^i^i 3£ Zhao Shuh

Copyrighted material

GLOSSARY

323

If'*-

Zhao Yuanren
Zhao Zhenkai
Zheng Tianjian
Zheng 2^enduo
Zhengqi ge
Zhenren zhenshi
Zhuju Weihushan
Zhong Wancat qijia
ZJfongguohaide nu chao
Zhongguo iiixing jutuan
zhongjian renwu
"Zhongliu dizhu"
Zhou £r£u
Zhou Yang
Zhou Yibai
Zhou Zuoren
Zhu Guangqian
Zhu Ziqing
"Zhungaer yangguang"
zhuma
Zibian ziyan
Zou Difan
Zousi
Zuguo

Zuguo, a, muqin

Zuile

Zuiren

zushi

Zushi miao

Copyrighted malerial

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

This bibliography contains selected materials in Western languages for further
reading and reference. It includes journals, general works, anthologies that deal
wholly or in part with contemporary Chinese literature and the performing arts,

monographs, and articles.

Bady, I'aiil. "Death and the Novel — On Lao She's 'Suicide' " and "Rehabilitation;

A C hronological Postscript." RenJitnnis 10 lAutumn 1978): 5-14, 15-20.
. "Pekin ou le microcosme dans Quatre generations sous un nmne ton de

Lao She.** Totmg Pao 60.4-5 (1974).
. "Pour une histoire litteraire de la Chine modeme: quelques sources chin-

oises et japonaises." Journal asiatique (1974), pp. 445-464.
. "The Modern Chinese Writer: Literary Incomes and Best Sellers.** China

Quarterly 88 (December 1981): 646-657.
Barme, Geremie. "Flowers or More Weeds? C'lilture in China since the Fall ot the

Gang of Four." Australian journal of Chinese Affairs 1 (January 1979): 125-

133.

Bei Dao (Zhao Zhenkai). Notes from the City of the Sun. Translated and edited by

Bonnie S. McDougall. Ithaca, 1983.
Benton, Gregor, ed. Wild LilieSt Poisonous Weeds. London, 1982.

Bcrninghausen, John, and Ted Huters, eds. Revolutionary Literature in China: An
Anthology. White Plains, 1976. (Originally published as a special issue of Bulle-
tin of Concerned Asian Scholars S, I and 2.)

Birch, c;vriK ed. Anthology of Cl.unese Literature, vol. 2. New York, 1972.

. "1 he Dragon and the Pen: The Literary Scene." Soviet Survey 24 (April-
June 1958): 22-26.

. ** Fiction of the Yenan Period.** Ofina Quarterly 4 (October-December

1960): 1-11.

. "Change and Continuity in C'hincsc Fiction," in Merle Goldman, ed..

Modem Chinese Literature in the May Fourth Era. Cambridge, Mass., 1977.

J2i

Copyrighted material

326

BIBLIOGRAPHY

, ed. Chinese Cuf/ununist Literature. New "lork, 1963. (Originally pub-
lished as a special issue of China Quarterly 13 [January-March 1963].)

Cavendish, Patrick. "The Revolution in Culture.* In Jack Gray and Patrick
Cavendi^, Chinese Communism in Crisis. London, 1968.

Chan, Peter. **Popular Publications in China: A Look at The Spring of Peking.''
Contemporary China 3, 4 (Winter 1979): 103-111.

Chen, jack. The Chinese Theater. London, 1949.

Chm, Ai-li S. "FaniiK Relations in Modern (^hmese Fiction." in M. Freedman, ed..
Family and Kinship in Chinese Society. Stanford, 1970.

. '*The Ideal Local Party Secretary and the 'Model' Man," China Quarterly

1 (January-March 1964): 229-240.

C^ina Handl?ook Editorial Committee, ed. China Handbook Series: Otiture. (Pek-
ing, 1982).

, ed. China Handbook Series: Literature and the Arts. (Peking;, 1983).

Chinese Literature (Peking), 1953-present.

CHINOPERL News (Ithaca), 1971-1975. Renamed Chinoperl Papers, 1976-

presenr.

Chu, Ciodwni, cd. Popular Media in China: Shapmg New Cultural Patterns. Ho-
nolulu, 1978.

and Francis L. K. Hsu. Moving a Mountain: Cultural Change in China.

Honolulu, 1979.

Clark, Paul. "Film-making in China: From the Cultural Revolution to 1981,**

China Quarterly 94 (June 19S V): 304-322.

Denes, Herve, ed. Le Retour du pcrc. Paris, 1981.

Ebon, Martin. Live Chinese Comifiunist PLiys. New York, 1975.

Fokkema, D. W. "Chinese Criticism ot Humanism: Campaign against the Intellec-
tuals, 1964-1966." China Quarterly 26 (April-June 1966).

. Literary Doctrine in China and Soviet Influence, 1950-1960. The Hague,

1965.

Gibbs, Donald A., ed. Dissonant Voices in Chinese Literature: Hu Feng, Chinese

Studies in l iterature 1, 1 (Winter 1979-1980): 3-S9.
, conip. Subject and Author Index to Chinese Literature (1956-0^71). New

Haven, 1978.

Cioldblait, Howard, ed. Chinese Literature for the 1 980s: The Lourth Congress of

Writers and Artists, Armonk, N.Y., 1982.
Goldman, Merie. Uterary Dissent in Communist China. Cambridge, Mass., 1967.
Goodman, David S. G. Beijmg Street Voices: The Poetry and Ptditics of China's

Democracy Movement. London, 1981.
Gunn, Edward M., Jr. Unwelcome Muse: Chinese Literature in Shanghai and

Peking, / 937-/ 945. New York, 1980.
. Twentieth-Century Chinese Drama: An Anthology. Bloommgton, Ind.,

1983.

Hinrup, Hans J., comp. An Index to 'Chinese Literature* 1951-1976. London,
1978.

Holm, David. "Hua Guofeng and the Village Drama Movement in die North-west
Shanxi Base Area, 1943-45." China Quarterly 84 (December 1980): 669-693.

Copyrighted matBrial

BIBLlOtiRAPHY

J27

Howard, Roger. Contemporary Chinese Iheatre, London, 1978.
Hsia, C. T. History of Modem Chinese Fiction. 2d ed. New Haven, 1971.
Hsu Kai-yu. The Chinese Literary Scene: A Writer's Visit to the People's Republic.
New York, 1975.

, ed. Literature of the People's Republic of China, filoomington, Indiana,

1980.

, ed. Twentieth Century Chinese Poetry: An Anthology. New York, 1964.

Huang, Joe C. "Hao Ran: Ihe Peasant Novelist." Modern China 2, 3 (July-
September 1976): 369-396.

. Heroes and Villains m Communist China: The Contemporary Chinese

Novel as a Reflection of Life. London and New York, 1973.

Index on Censorship 9, 1 (February 1980), pp. 3—48. Special issue on China.

Jenner, W. J. F., ed. Modem Chinese Stories, London, 1970.

. "1979: A New Start for Literature in China?" China Quarterly 86 (June

1981): 274-303.

King, Richard, " 'Wounds' and 'Exposure': Chinese Literature after the Gang of

Four." Pacific Affairs 54, 1 (Spring 1981): 82-99.
Kubin, Wolfgang, ed. Hiouiert Bliimen: Moderne chinesische Erzdhlungen. Second

volume: 1949 to 1979. Frankfurt, 1980.
and Rudolf Wagner, eds. Essays in Modem Chinese LUerature and Literary

Criticism, Bochum, 1982.
Lee, Leo Ou-fan. "Dissent Literature from the Cultural Revolution." Chinese Lit-

erature: Essays, Articles, Reviews 1,1 (January 1979): 59-79.
Leyda, ja) . Dianying: An Account of Films and the Film Audience in China.

Cambridge, Mass., 1972.
Link, Perrv. Wandarin Ducks and Butterflies: Popular Fiction m Early I wentieth-

Century Chinese Cities. Berkeley, 1981.
Liu Xinwu, et al. Prize-Winning Stories from China, 1978-1979. Peking, 1981.
Liu, Alan P. L. The Film Industry in Communist Chhta. Cambridge, Mass. 1965.
Loi, Michelle. Poetes du peuple chinois, Paris, 1969.

Louie, Kam. "Discussions on 'Exposure Literature' since the Fall of the 'Gang of

Four'." Contemporary' China 3, 4 (Winter 1979): 91-102.
Lu Xinhua, et al. The Wounded. H(Mip K(inp, I9'"9.

Mackerras, Colin. .Amateur iheatre in ( hma / 9-^9-/966. Canberra, 1973.
. "Chinese Opera after the Cultural Revolution (1970-1972)." China

Quarterly 55 (July-September 1973): 478-510.

. The Chinese Theatre in Modem Times, from 1840 to the Present Day.

London, 1975.

-. The Performing Arts in Contemporary China. London, 1981.

Malmqvist, G()ran, ed. Modem Chinese Literature and Its Social Context. [Stock-
holm, 1977.]

McDougall, Bonnie S. "Dissent Literature and Contemporary C^hina: Varieties of
Dissent Literature in and about China in the Seventies." Contemporary China
3, 4 (Winter 1979): 49-79.

. Mao Zedong's ''Talks at the Yan'an Conference on Literature and Art,"

Ann Arbor, 1980.

Copyrighted material

328

BIBLIOGRAPHY

. "Poems, Poets, and Poetry 1976: An Exercise In the Typology of Modern

Chinese literatiire." Contemporary China 2, 4 (Winter 1978): 76-124.

. **Underground Literature: Two Reports from Hong Kong." Contemporary

China, 3, 4 (Winter 1979): 80-90.

Meserve, Walter and Ruth I. Meserve. Modem Drama from Communist China.
New York, 1970.

and . Modern Literature from China. New York, 1974.

Mitchell, John D., comp. The Red Pear Garden: Three Great Dramas of Revolu-
tionary Chma. boston, 1973.

Modem Chinese Literature Newsletter (Minneapolis), 1975 -present.

Monsterleet, Jan. Sommets de la ^t6ratitre dmoise contemporaine, Paris, 1953.

Mowry, Hua-Yuan Li. Yang-pan hsi: New Theatre in China. Berkeley, 1973.

Nieh Hualing. Literature of the Hundred Flowers. 2 vols. New York, 1981,

Pollard, D. E. "The Short Story in the Cultural Revolution," China Quarterly 73
(March 1978): 99-121.

Priisek, Jaroslav. Die Literatur des Befreiten China und ihre Volkstraditionen.
Berlin, 1955.

■■ "La Nouvelle Litterature chinoise." Archw Orientalni 27, 1 (1959): 76-
95.

^1 ed. Studien zur Modemen Chinesis^en Literature. Berlin, 1964.

Ragvald, Lars. Yao Wen-yuan as a Literary Critic and Theorist: The Emergence of

chmcse Zhdanovism. Stockholm, 1978.

Ru Zhi)u;in. er Sei'en Contemporary' Chinese Women Writers. Peking, 1982.
Scott, A. L. Literature and the Arts in Lu etitieth Century Chma. New York, 1963.
Sidane, Victor. Le Prmtemps de Pekm, Novemhre 1978-Mars 19S0. Paris, 1980.
Shih, Vincent, "Satire in Chinese Communist Literature." Istng Hua Journal n.s.
7, 1 (1968): 54-70.

SKipski, Z., ed. Dictionary of Oriental Literature, I: East Asia. New York, 1974.
Snow, Louise Wheeler. China on Stage: An American Actress in the People's

Republic. New York, 1972.

Ting Yi. A Short History of Modern Chinese Literature. Peking, 1959.

Tsai Meishi. Contemporary Chinese Novels and Short Stories, 1949-1974. Cam-
bridge, Mass.. 1979.

Westerly. Contemporary Chma Issue. University of Western Australia. September
1981.

Xiao Lan, ed. The Tiananmen Poems. Peking, 1979.

Yang, Richard F, S. "The Reform of Pdcing Opera under the Communists.** Ofina
Quarterly 11 (July-September 1962): 124-139.

Copyrighted material

INDEX

A Ying (Qian Xingcun), 44

Ai Qing, lOn, 19, 247, 251-53,276, mi

Ai Shan. See Zhao Zhenkai

Ai Siqi, 9, lln, 25n

Andreyev, Leonid, 51

Antirightist movement, 99^ 226, 263,
275-278. 285. 298. 300, 3D2

Army literature, songs. See War litera-
ture; Songs and singing, army

Audiences and readerships, xiii, 4-5,
7, 17, 22^ 31-33, 37^ 39^ 41-44,
46-47, 49j 53-54, 78-79, 83-
UO, 146, 157, 163, 165-67, 172,
174-75, 177-78, 181, 183, 187-
89, 194-95, 205-206, 212, 225,
230-43, 269, 277, 280-91, 29ii

Azalea Mountain [Dujuanshan], See
Model revolutionary opera

Ba Jin, 59n, 68, 272n, 276, 300, 304n;

Jia (Family], 45, 47, 48, 282
Ba Ren (Wang Renshu), 41
Bai Hua, 194n

Bai mao nii [White-haired girl]: geju
[musical drama], 126; ballet See
Model revolutionary theater

Bao Yutang, 265

Baoziivan zhandou (Battle of Leopard
Valley), \KL

Barrie, James, il

Bei Dao. See Zhao Zhenkai

Bian Zhilin, 67, 69, 245, 242

Bishang Liangshan, 207

Book of Songs. See Shijing

Breaking with Old Ideas. See Juelie

Buddhism, 190, 204, 231-33, 242

Cai Yuanpei, 114, 242

Cantonese opera. See Opera, tradi-
tional regional and local

Cao Xueqin: Hong lou meng [Dream
of the red chamber] or Shitou ji
[The story of the stone], 68, 74,
96n, 203, 204, 213n

Cao Yu (Wan Jiabao), 37, 38-42, 63n,
282; Leiyu [Thunderstorm], 39-41 ;
Richtd [Sunrise], 41, 46^ Tuibian
[Metamorphosis], 45

Censorship and control, 38, 39, 43, 46,
47, 47-48, 57, 6L 62, 63-64, 66,
72-73. 104, 108n, 109, r9L 222,
263, 271-73, 282, 304. See also Cul-
tural Revolution, banning of litera-
ture and performing arts during

Chai Qingshan, 264n

Chang, Eileen (ZhanK Ailing), 37, 48-49

Chang Baohua, 85

Chang Feng. See Chang Fengzhuan

329

Copyr

330

INDEX

Chang Fengzhuan (Chang Feng), 72
Chang Guitian, 8i

Chao, Y.R. (Zhao Yuanren), 116. 127

ChapHn, CharUe, IM

Characterization: in film, 180, 182-
84; in model opera, 148, 220-23,
292; in modern drama, 41_j 44^ 52^
in modern fiction, 206-10, 2JJ.-12,
215-23, 227-31, 233-38, 240-
43; in reformed yangge, 21-22,
25-28; in traditional fiction and
drama, 44, 149, 203-4, 206-10,
212, 215-23, 234, 281, 291; in tra-
ditional yangge, 18, 21, 22, 25-28;
in xiangsheng, 101, 104, 105, IQS-
See also Middle characters

Chen Baichen, 46, 52

Chen Boda, 275

Chen Jo-hsi (Chen Ruoxi), 272

Chen Maiping (Wan Zhi), ^03

Chen Ruoxi. See Chen Jo-hsi

Chen Yi, 258, 7M. See also under
Mao Zedong

Cheng Yin, 18fi-87

Chiang Kai-shek, 65, 12^ See also Na-
tionalist Party

Christianity, 115, 140; Baptist Mass
Education Society (Dingxian), 14—
15j Job, 203

Chuangye [The pioneers], 180

Cinema. See Film industry; Films and
filming

Civil War (1946-1949), 209, 214-22,
222

Clapper opera [bangzi). See Opera, tra-
ditional regional and local

Class consciousness and class struggle,
7, 21-22, 26, 41, 97i 102, 132,
166, 169, 170, 175, 205, 208, 226,
234, 236, 2M.

Comedy, farce, and humor, 15, 18, 20,
22, 26-28, 84-111, 167, 170, 171.
172, 261, 262, 2£L See also Drama,
modem; Entertainment; Films and
filming

Commercial viability and popular taste,

3-4, 28, 36, 39, 40-44. 47, 48-49,

51, 59, 60, 82, 165, 174, 176, 226,
243. See also Audiences; Writers and
performing arts personnel, as profes-
sionals

Confucius and Confucianism, 75, 112-
13, 169, 201, 202, 202-6, 209, 223,
282, 226* See also Neo-Confucian-
ism

Cui Wei: Fangxia nide bianzi [Lay
down your whip], 38, 43

Cultural Revolution and aftermath
(1966-1976), viii, 109, 179-81.
208. 210, 265, 269-70. 278-80.
281-83. 282, 285. 292-301; ban-
ning of literature and performing
arts during, 35, 36^ 109, 126, 127,

147, 163, 176, 179, 26L 263-75.

285 — 86; cultural products of, vii,

viii, 4, 90, 93-94, 99, 103, 105,
106. 107-8, 109, 125, 111, 134-
35, 147-48. 163-64. 166. 175.
178-81. 182, 224, 225-35, 238,
243, 286, 292 -3 01 {see also Model
revolutionary opera; Model revolu-
tionary theater); periodization of,
292. 296-97. 302; persecution of
writers and performing artists under
{see Writers and performing arts
personnel, professional status and
conditions of, persecution and criti-
cism of); subsequent reaction to, vii,

ix, 35, 84-85, 103, 106, 127, 143,

148, 163, 166, 176, 178-96. 205.
224. 245-47. 249. 251. 263. 265,
301-4. See also Gang of Four

Dahe benliu [The great river rushes
on], 182, 184, 185-87, 193, 124

Degeyter, Pierre: "The Internationale,"
118, 119, 120, 131. \M

Democracy, 9, 55-56, 101, 108. 190-
93, 263

INDEX

331

Democracy movement (1978-1979),
See also Tiananmen Incident;
Dissident literature, unofficial

Deng Tuo, 271, 275, 222

Deng Xiaoping, 134, 135, 262, 265,
275. 295, Mm

Dialect. See Local dialects

Dickens, Charles, 25

Didacticism, edification, and education-
al functions of literature and per-
forming arts, 13^ 28, 46i 72, 77, 79^

112. 114-17, 121-22. 140, 165-
66, 12Q, 171, 195, 204, 212, 222,
229, 233-34, 238, 286, 302. See
also Propaganda; Ritual

Ding Ling, 23n, 33, 271, 276, 303
Dissident literature, 299-300; absence

of before Cultural Revolution, 271,

275, 277i underground, 299-300;

unofficial, 248, 265. 296, 302-304.

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